


Don't Be Such an Infant

by Centelope



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Gen, Hurt!Jim, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Panic Attacks, Paralysis, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 02:58:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15379212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Centelope/pseuds/Centelope
Summary: Jim has a reason not to trust doctors. Bones is the only doctor allowed to touch him. But when Jim is seriously injured by the Klingons, how will he cope when Bones can't always be there?





	1. Chapter 1

**WARNING: This chapter is pretty graphic when it comes to the Klingons. The rest of the chapters won't be like it, but if you're squeamish, then watch out! :D**

**Hope you enjoy! This will be around 3-5 chapters long.**

* * *

 

 

_6 months after Jim become Captain of the Enterprise._

“I can’t believe you, Jim,” McCoy grumbled, forcefully yanking a hypospray out of the tray purposefully to make it clatter, “I’m sick of chasing you around the damn ship like a seven-year-old,” he jammed the device into the man’s forearm, taking silent pleasure in the elicited screech.

“Because you keep doing _that!”_ Jim yelled, clutching his arm as if McCoy had yanked it off.

“Maybe if you didn’t turn up 4 weeks late to your physicals I would actually be a little nicer,” he picked up the second hypo of the three and tauntingly held it above Jim’s face, “Maybe this will teach you to act like a Captain—” he slammed the plunger into the blonde’s already pulsing forearm again, smiling when Jim protectively wrapped his hand around it.

“Stop fucking doing that!” Jim yelled, not taking his hand away from his arm this time, “You’re supposed to be a doctor but you’re making it hurt!”

Bones snorted, twiddling the final hypo between his finger and thumb, spinning it around while thinking of another place he could slam it into. Boy, he could think of several.

“Don’t be such an infant. Ever since I agreed to stay on this death trap, you’re the worst patient I’ve ever come across,” he said moving to jab the hypo into Jim’s neck but the man jolted and scurried back on the bed.

“C’mere.”

“Didn’t you say doctor’s were the worst patients?” Jim’s voice was a little bit too high, his pupils blown wide and glued to the device, avoiding it like the plague.

“Yeah, but you’re starting to challenge that,” he reached out to grab Jim’s head only to be suddenly wrenched away with a sweating hand.

“Don’t.” Jim demanded.

McCoy was about to lecture him about who was in charge here, only to get a good look at Jim’s face, beginning to realise the body language he was expressing.

His arms were both raised almost in a protective manner, as if defending himself from McCoy. He hadn’t ever done that before, and he had never come across it on the Enterprise.

He frowned, and analysed closer. The fact that Jim’s pupils were blown wide was something that he had dismissed—that, along with the protective manner and pale trembling skin sent up red flags across McCoy’s medical mind.

He lowered his hypospray for a second and looked Jim in the eye.

“You feelin’ okay?”

If he didn’t know any better, it seemed that the kid was about to work himself into a panic attack.

It was just a damn hypospray. What grown man in control of a Starfleet flagship works himself into a panic attack over a little hypo?

“Just—don’t,” Jim reacted quickly, the words forced and trembling.

“Is it the hypo?” usually the way to calm panic attacks would be to use hypos. Using a hypo to calm a panic attack about hypos was probably going to be counterproductive.

Alas, Jim nodded wordlessly.

_Damn._

“Alright,” McCoy said slowly, placing the hypo on the instrument tray beside him and trying to think back to his training. How would you calm someone if the medicine is the problem?

Both men stared at each other for a long stretch of time, McCoy just watching him carefully and reading every expression, while Jim just sat rigid on the biobed, unmoving.

Eventually, his dementor dropped, his shoulders slumped, and Jim just dropped his gaze to the blanket, ashamed.

Simultaneously, the vital monitors displaying his heart-rate and blood pressure was beginning drop back down to normal levels.

McCoy scowled, deciding to try again with this extremely quick and simple vaccine, picking up the hypo— only for the monitors to instantly shoot up again, like a switch.

Jim’s body once again went rigid, his fingers clawing at the bed, a feat McCoy hadn’t ever seen before.

McCoy dropped the hypo back on the tray again and sighed.

“Christ, Jim,” he muttered, swallowing hard against the feeling of guilt when he saw the expression on the _captain’s_ face.

“I can’t do it,” Jim nearly croaked, his pupils still huge as if face-to-face with certain death, “Don’t do it.”

McCoy shook his head, “You can’t go down to Fardabos without the vaccine, Jim. You’re allergic to the air pollution.”

Jim nearly choked out a sob and shook his head desperately, “Don’t care. I’ll stay here. Don’t do it.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, McCoy nodded absentmindedly and began looking through the tray for other instruments he could somehow use to deliver the medication instead.

“Is it jus’ the hypos?” he asked, hardly paying attention while sifting through the many metal objects.

Jim’s voice was a little shaky as he hummed in acknowledgement.

Finally, McCoy pulled out a simple IV kit, deciding that the extra effort would be worth it if Jim allowed him to give him what he needed.

“It’s a little stupid to deliver one shot through an IV, but if it gets you down there, then whatever,” he grumbled, taking the hypo and connecting it to the tube, “Lie back for a sec,”

Jim still seemed apprehensive, but obeyed and lay down flat. There was a look of rock-hard determination on his face, as if having realised how stupid he was being and was determined to get this over with.

_Good._

He took the end of the IV’s needle and grasped Jim’s hand in another. As he was about to poke it in his vein, Jim looked down at him and instantly repelled, trying to tug his hand away, but McCoy wasn’t going to fend off something stupid like this.

“Just relax. For the love of god, this is nothing,” he grumbled, trying to concentrate on where to poke him what with his hand shaking from Jim’s violent tugging.

“Don’t—” Jim breathed, and Bones could hear him hyperventilating, “Stop. Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—no. No. No. No. No. No! No. No! No! No! _No! NO!”_

“Alright!” McCoy yelled, giving up and dropping the equipment down, “Oh, shit,” he didn’t realise how bad Jim was coping until he had a look at his face.

“Alright—hey, hey, hey,” he muttered, placing both hands below Jim’s collarbones and gently pressing him down, “Hey—hey—breathe, kid, breathe. S’alright. I won’t do it. I won’t do it, I swear. Alright? Calm down. God damn it…”

Something had obviously happened, he thought to himself.

Something had happened to make him react this badly.

Jim was practically vibrating against the bed, his feet and hands twitching, undoubtedly from having an anxiety attack.

“I can’t do it,” Jim repeated again, “Don’t make me.”

McCoy breathed heavily, “I won’t. I won’t do it,” he soothed, moving one hand away from his chest to discreetly push the trolley cart away, sparing a glance at the monitors. He bit his lip.

“Okay, you’re breathin’ way too damn fast, you gotta slow down,” he ordered, looking around the room for any inspiration. He couldn’t use a hypo—the solution to all his problems.

_Think, McCoy, think._

“Okay… _okay…_ copy me, okay?” he told him, taking in a slow deep breath and hoping for the best, “Breathe in real slow and deep, with me,” he watched Jim try to copy him, but it was shakier and stuttering more than a real breath, “Okay, again, but out this time. In and out, real slow.”

It seemed like hours before Jim actually began to develop a calmer rhythm of his own, the longer stretches of silence between each _beep_ on the biobed monitor alerting McCoy that he was breathing slower.

He allowed Jim to just sit in contemplative silence for a while, rubbing his chin with his hand and trying to think of a way around this.

Jim wanted to go down to Fardabos, it was the nearest paradise, barring the slight air pollution. The quicker they got to a paradise the more shore leave they’d have. And knowing Jim, he’d stay up here on this death trap of a ship just so that the rest of his crew could have a good time below.

He sighed.

“Jim, why the hell are you so deathly afraid of hypos?”

Jim gazed up at him, opened his mouth to say something, paused, then just grunted, frowning as his gaze dropped to the blankets.

“It’s stupid,” the man finally said. The first coherent, intellectual word McCoy heard from him in a while.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

He was expecting it to be something like _I accidentally jabbed myself with it as a child and now I’m traumatised._ But, what left his mouth would probably make McCoy traumatised instead.

“When I was rescued from Tarsus, at 13, I was…rebelling, uh…” Jim paused, then started fiddling with the bed sheets, “I was transferred to a hospital from malnutrition, I fought against them ‘cos I thought they were working with Kodos, and they just, didn’t like me, I guess.”

McCoy folded his arms, “Didn’t like you?” he tried to ignore the fact Jim was suggesting he was one of the Tarsus nine survivors.

“Uh…I wouldn’t let them, so to ‘save my life’ they restrained me to a bed for three days and kept poking hypos and IV’s in me. I recovered, of course, and left fine,” he paused again, his fingers scrunching up the sheets, “I just…I can’t have them near me now. It’s weird and stupid, I know.”

Huh.

Well, that explained a lot.

It also explained why Jim would return back to their dorm from a physical in the academy more exhausted and sometimes red-eyed and puffy than when he left. He had assumed he got into more fights, which was common.

“Well…” McCoy took in a breath, deciding he’d leave his questions about Tarsus for later in the day, “It seems we have a problem then, Jim. Physicals are mandatory every month, after every away mission, and you need a vaccine almost every time before you go down to a new planet.”

Jim nodded solemnly, assumingly also thought about that himself already.

“Do you trust me?”

Jim stopped frowning at his legs and gazed up at McCoy, “Yeah, ‘course I do, Bones.”

He smiled gently, “Then let me give you this one shot. You know I won’t hurt ya.”

Jim fidgeted, taking in another shuddering breath…breathed out again…another shuddering inhale…and out again…then looked back up at him and nodded.

“Yeah?” McCoy asked hopefully, stepping backwards towards the trolley and detaching the hypo from the IV, “I’ll be real quick, and I’ll do it gentle this time.”

Jim snorted, “You better.” His voice was quiet and distant.

Returning to his patient’s side, McCoy decided it was best Jim continued laying down, and pointed at the door, “Stare at the door like you can’t wait to walk out of it.”

Jim smirked, turning his head towards the door, and before a single thought could run through his mind, McCoy grabbed Jim’s arm and pressed the hypo to it, depressing its contents immediately upon contact. He felt his patient’s body go rigid instantly. Jim was holding his breath.

McCoy removed the hypo and tossed it back on the tray.

“There ya go,” he chided, giving Jim a light pat on the arm, “All done. Wasn’t that bad, you infant.”

Jim forced a smirk on his face, his arms still rigid and breathing heavy, “Didn’t know you could do it that lightly, Bones.”

McCoy snorted, “Only for you, goddammit,” he was relieved to see the vitals were dropping back to normal levels, “You little shit.”

Jim smiled and took in another deep breath, closing his eyes for a second.

“Bones.”

“Mmhm?”

“I’m making it an order that you are to be my only doctor.”

“Only me?”

“No-one else.”

“You’re makin’ me deal with you alone? You bastard.”

Jim snorted, sitting up from the biobed and sighing.

“Now don’t get yourself killed on shore leave, idiot,” McCoy chorded, gesturing to the door and beginning to reset the biobed.

Jim threw his hands in the air on his way out, “When do I ever?”

Bones rolled his eyes. “What a goddamn infant.”

* * *

 

_3 years later._

What Jim wouldn’t give right now to have Bones with him.

 

He was currently on a Klingon ship, in the middle in the neutral zone. As an ‘ambassador of Starfleet’.

“Y’know, maybe you should take this up with the Federation’s admirals instead of me, I’m just a ship Captain,” Jim explained, knowing the Klingons would never accept defeat, sprouting some crap about their ‘honour’.

“Captain Kirk,” a very armoured Klingon approached him, “I have a feeling your…Federation…would not listen to us in the way that you do.”

Another Klingon approached beside him before Jim could get a word in, “We know about your tendencies, Captain, we would demand that you listen to us.”

Jim frowned, “You mentioned war. Why? We haven’t made any contact with your race since back on Kronos.”

The call from this Klingon ship came seemingly out of no-where back on the Enterprise, requesting for an immediate imperative _meeting_.

“We would like to start a war with your Federation so that we may claim more land for the Klingon Empire.”

And this was all that came from it.

Jim couldn’t help himself from snorting, “That’s all very well and good but couldn’t you just search elsewhere? There’s a vast amount of just _this_ galaxy we haven’t explored yet, why not just take over that one?”

Instantaneously, the entire auditorium burst into loud gruff laughter, and Jim would’ve groaned if it wasn’t for his diplomatic training.

“We do not want to find _new_ land, Captain Kirk. We would like to take over yours.”

He sighed. Might as well play this out until his crew realise he hasn’t checked in for a long time and just beamed him out.

“And why’s that? Searching for something else yourself too much hard work?”

_Oh f-_

_CRASH!_

Jim choked against the hand suddenly wrapped around his neck.

“ _Do not underestimate our race, Captain Kirk,”_ the Klingon was nose to nose with him, hissing threateningly. “We do not take kindly to those that belittle our honour.”

 _What honour?_ Jim wanted to say, but didn’t.

“O…kay, so let’s say that we agree to go to war with you, then what?”

The Klingon’s grip around Jim’s neck grew tighter, and ultimately realised he could no longer breathe.

“We are not _asking_ to go to war. We _will_ go to war. And we need more soldiers than we have.”

Well, what were they going to do? Pop out little Klingons and wait 30 years for them to grow up?

Images of 10-year-old angry Klingons trying to raid his ship in the name of _honour_ nearly made Jim laugh if it wasn’t for the fact he was choking.

“Listen to me, and listen to me good, Captain Kirk,” the Klingon from behind him walked up to them both, watching the guy that had him in chokehold. “Release him, we need him alive.”

There was a grunt, then the hand was released.

He sucked in a breath, closing his eyes and nearly buckling under his legs, forcing himself to stay upright for the sake of dignity.

“…Yeah?” he choked, taking a deep breath and testing his newly bruised throat.

“A Klingon Starfleet Captain would be a great asset to us. Knowing all of your Federation secrets and fighting with us in the war. You can bring us more allies to defeat you. We will be victorious. You will be our Chancellor.”

Jim blinked.

“You’re just expecting me to side with you?” that was ridiculous. They _must_ know that he was sworn by oath, especially as a Captain, to never give up any of Starfleet secrets, never mind fighting alongside their enemies.

“You will have no choice.”

He laughed, “So, I’m a hostage? Alright then.” He was suddenly very glad he came up with the protocol for beam out with his crew he didn’t check in after an hour.

The Klingon that previously had straggled him rammed him up against the wall, “You _petaQ,”_  he spat, “Speak to our leader as if he is of importance.”

“ _BIjatlh e yImev,_ Dakiz,” the other Klingon scorned, smacking him on the shoulder. The hand forcing Jim’s chest into the wall was roughly removed.

The supposed leader stared at Jim for a few seconds before grunting something under his breath and stomping away.

Jim turned his head back to his attacker before the other Klingon spoke up again behind him.

“ _HIghoS_ , Captain Kirk.”

Jim turned towards him, “What?” apparently the universal translator wasn’t exactly functioning.

The attacker spat inches away from Jim. “He says to follow him.”

“Oh, right,” he blinked, but did as told, deciding he might as well follow protocol.

Jim was led out of the auditorium by the proclaimed leader, and into another darker room.

The room smelt damp, the flooring tiled with cracked concrete and dirt. It was an odd thing to see, considering they were on a ship in space.

A wooden table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by multiple trays of what he assumed were supposed to be torture instruments.

He sighed.

_Not this again._

Jim noticed a large circular metal object hanging on the ceiling, a fissure running down the middle of it, allowing for the device to be opened and for something to come through.

He turned to the leader and put on his best captain face, “You’re going to torture me until I blurt out Starfleet’s secrets? Y’know, that’s been done before a few years back with Christopher Pike, but that was with the Romulans and that didn’t turn out so well for them—"

“Quiet, Kirk,” the Klingon boomed, staring at him icily, “This room is not intended for torture,” he paused, then stood up straight, “Many years ago, perhaps before you were created, we achieved genetic manipulation. A Klingon spy in human form on a Federation ship.”

Jim tensed his jaw. He saw where this was going and didn’t like the sound of it.

“We are now going to achieve the opposite. Bring the Federation officers and alter them into Klingons. Their knowledge of the Federation will remain intact; however you will battle on our side, and look like our people. The ultimate sacrifice…so that we shall become successful.”

Jim scrunched his hands into fists when he noticed they were shaking. This was something he wasn’t sure Bones would be able to fix…or even reverse.

“Listen, have you even tried this before or—”

“Do not question me, Captain Kirk!” the Klingon shouted, “I will order your death if you do not co-operate, and we will simply use another member of your crew instead.”

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

“Look—”

“Guards!”

Jim’s blood went cold, and before he could even react to the order, doors barged open and two Klingons came stomping in, the leader not taking his eyes off him, “Prepare him,” he ordered coldly.

He swallowed hard, “No, listen, this probably isn’t going to work,” he began, grunting when two Klingon’s definitely much stronger than him, grabbed him under the arms and dragged him towards the table. His legs gave out from anxiety.

“Stand up, you pathetic ape!”

Jim knew what was happening—he was about to have another panic attack.

The last time it had happened was 3 years ago, and Bones was there to calm him down. And it hadn’t happened again since. Until now.

Deciding to ignore his disobedience, the two Klingon guards simply continued carrying him across the room, his knees scraping across the floor until he was brought to the table and hauled facedown onto the platform with a _BANG._

Jim coughed as he inhaled the lingering dust on the surface, his body weak from an impending anxiety attack that he hoped wouldn’t show its face.

He felt the tight sting of rope being wrapped around his ankles, his arms being pulled out to their sides on parts of the table he didn’t even know was there, rope being tightened around his wrists.

“What, you guys never heard of sedatives? You’re pretty inferior compared to us earthlings,” Jim taunted the best he could, straining against the rope but of course, it was tightly banding his limbs to the table. So tightly that the circulations in his hands and feet were quickly being cut off.

“Klingons do not use what you humans call sedatives,” rumbled a guard Jim hadn’t heard speak before, “You are to be a Klingon. Be proud, and suffer through it like a true Klingon Warrior!”

Jim was about to crack another joke before he felt hands ruthlessly begin ripping the clothes off his body. He shuddered instantly, the hyperventilating becoming much more prominent.

Klingons must be genetically manipulated into being unable to form strong emotions such as panic, fear or upset. He only hoped whatever they planned on doing got rid of the panicking quickly.

With his back now exposed to the elements, he grit his teeth at the hyperventilating that was threatening to take over his body.

“Don’t suppose I have a choice,” he mumbled into the wooden table he was face down on, forcefully trying to calm his nerves.

He heard a loud whirring above him—some _clanking—_ and a low buzz that turned into a high-pitched screech.

“No, you do not, Captain Kirk.”

The noise grew louder as it grew closer, his breathing growing manic and out of control as he could practically feel wind generated from the instrument against his back.

Suddenly, his body arched as something dug into the top of his spine—he _screamed_ bloody mary into the table, jerked at his limbs, trying to get them to move, but it was futile.

He vaguely heard the voice of the Klingon behind him against the shrill noise of both the device and his screaming – “Your name will be _HoD qIrq_ when you are finished,” before he heard the sound of the metal door slamming shut, leaving Jim to the machine.

 

It must have been twenty excruciating minutes later, and whatever this device was, was still going up and down Jim’s spine over and over again.

His light-headedness caused him to lose feeling in his limbs—or at least that’s what he hoped the reason was. Everything was numb, so he couldn’t even _try_ to move.

At this point his throat was so painful from screaming that flecks of red had appeared on the table he was forced to stare down at.

As the device began its cycle of cutting into bone again, Jim squeezed his eyes shut and moaned hoarsely into the table. It hit another sensitive spot—he let out an ear-piercing screech—and sobbed as it moved on. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to die.

He didn’t know how long he had been lying there, face down on the table with his limbs pinned to his sides, this machine working on his spine for god knows what reason. He assumed it was because his body needed to hold whatever they were going to do to him, so they were giving him a Klingon spine? He didn’t know.

He didn’t _want_ to know.

He just wanted to die.

 

Distantly, over the shrill noises, the sound of a metal door unclamping startled Jim out of his miserable thoughts, briefly bringing his attention to the heavy footsteps before sobbing into the now wet-stained wood again.

“It is unfortunate you are in this much pain. You must be honoured to become a Klingon, to be trained into pain becoming a pleasure!”

Jim could only moan into the table.

There were more heavy footsteps. Jim arched as the instrument hit a particularly sensitive spot on the top of his spine, and screeched.

“It appears your spinal reconstruction is progressing well,” the Klingon marvelled, now much louder so was probably standing beside him, “It is almost recognisable as a Klingon spine. Soon you will be eligible for a total anatomy reconstruction.”

Jim clenched his jaw, trying to control his breathing so he could speak.

“G-g-goodie...”

There was a few moments of silence, before the Klingon began belting out some more crap.

“I am honoured to be watching birth of the future Chancellor of the Klingon empire,” he marvelled, “Ah. Your posterior is sealed.”

Blissfully, at the same time, the agonising object was retracted from his back, the excruciating pain still radiating through his spine, but the causal object was gone nonetheless.

“You will be much stronger now. However, without altering your anatomy to that of a Klingon, you will become paralyzed. Let us proceed to the next procedure.”

As hands began untying his wrists and ankles, he was beginning to get rolled over onto his back. He panted against agony that he had never felt before.

While his limbs were once again pulled out to their sides and tied down, he saw the machine for the first time. It looked much like a circular saw blade. He cringed. That had been in his _back._

The machine then positioned itself directly above Jim’s sternum, ready for the command to begin sawing through his ribs, and with his arms pinned to their sides—powerless to stop it.

His breathing grew laboured as his eyes laid upon the machine inches away from him.

“Hh-ey, g-guy,” Jim spluttered hoarsely, trying to get the Klingon’s attention, “D-don’t ssssuppose I c-can take a b-br-reak?”

The Klingon laughed at his request. “You are not Klingon material!” then stepped closer, “But fear not. I will make you Klingon material.”

“B-but l-listen,” he choked, trying not to panic as the Klingon began typing in commands for the machine to start up again, desperately looking between him and the saw directly above his ribs, “I’m n-n-numb, d-do you w-want a pa-pa-paral-lyzed le-leader?”

The Klingon paused, and eyed him, scowling.

“That would not be good. We would have to kill you and find another human,” he pondered this for a few seconds and then stepped towards Jim, his heart pounding in his chest so hard it was starting to hurt, “As a flagship Captain you are our best leader material. Tell me what I am to do to avoid the risk of paralysation. _Guards!”_

Jim tried to hide the sigh of relief he had. If he could get the Klingon to untie him, it would give him a chance to escape. The metal door opened again, two Klingons walking in silently.

“Ju-just let me out o-of the-these rest-t-t-raints for a f-few minutes a-and con-cont-continue…”

The lead Klingon glared at him, obviously anticipating his attempt to escape, but clearly not wanting to risk him being paralysed. He turned to the other guards in the room.

“Untie him and allow seventy-three seconds of guarded release. Then put him back down and continue with the procedure.”

The two guards nodded, “ _Luq_ ”, and waited for the current leader to leave.

He was then untied from the table, allowing him to move his limbs for the first time in an hour.

He tried to stretch his legs, but bit back a scream.

Everything hurt _so much._

He wanted to cry. But not in front of the Klingons.

“Do not try to escape,” the first guard said, eying him carefully, “We will begin genetic manipulation without first altering your pain receptors, to elicit extreme pain as punishment.”

Jim swallowed hard.

Either he escaped and got out, or escaped and died in agony.

“I n-need to ch-check I’m not g-going to b-be par-paraly-lysed,” he lied, turning his head towards the pile of torn yellow clothes left on a nearby wooden table.

“How?” the second guard asked.

“I need my tr-tri-tricorder,” he stuttered, “It’s y-yellow. D-don’t w-worry, it’s j-just a sc-scanner, I ca-ca-ca-can’t d-do any-anything w-with it,”

The two guards looked at each other and nodded in confirmation, the first stomping over to it.

He thrust the communicator—tricorder into Jim’s hand and glared at him, “Make your scan quick, and alert us to your findings.”

Jim nodded, flipping it open, his heart racing at the light static jingle it made. He was _so_ close to rescue.

He pretended to scan himself for a bit, hovering over his side, unable to reach his ribs due to the massive machine hovering over it.

Then looking above his eyebrows to see the Klingons watching him, he read the blank screen, pretending to take in his ‘vitals’, then nonchalantly flicked the ‘red alert’ button, indicating he needed immediate beam out.

The button started flashing red, alerting him that the receiving end—the Enterprise had been transmitted the message, and he flipped the communicator shut, forcing a smile.

“A-all is ok, the nu-numbness is just te-temporarily b-because of the r-restraints, just like I thought.”

The Klingons both nodded in unison, the first guard taking the communicator away from him and planting it back on top of his shirt.

The second Klingon walked back around to the control panel, as the first began tying him back down again.

“We hope the next time we enter this room, you are a Klingon, and not an ape.”

Jim scoffed, closing his eyes, and begging to whatever deity out there that his crew would get him back in time.

As the low whirring noise started up, growing louder and high-pitched once again, Jim dared himself to open his eyes and see the circular axe saw whirling, lowering to his ribs. He watched the metal door slam shut as the guards left, Jim squeezing his eyes shut as he anticipated the world of agony he was about to endure.

He bit back a scream as the axe sliced off the first layers of skin—but then there was nothing but static.

The high-pitched noise drowned out into nothingness.

He felt he was floating.

For a second he thought he had died, and he opened his eyes to see what happened—but everything was white.

There was a low hum, but it was a comforting hum, a sound he was used to.

Turning his head to the side, he saw a long corridor, doors that looked like they were from—

Oh god, the Enterprise.

_The Enterprise._

_They found me._

_I’m not gonna die._

Jim shut his eyes.

“ _Oh god…”_ he scrunched his face and started sobbing on the floor, oblivious of the fact he was still completely stark naked in the middle of the corridor.

At the sharp pain his crying brought, he shot open his eyes and lifted his now free hands over his chest, wincing at the sharp sting.

He lifted the hand to his face, grimacing as it was dripping with crimson blood.

Clearly the Klingon’s had managed to get a five second head start into his chest before he was beamed out.

For a second, he began to wonder why he was in the middle of a corridor and not in the transporter room or sickbay.

He blinked, as all rational thought began to return to him.

Lifting a hand to his chest and seeing blood meant he had no shirt on. He had no shirt on back in the chamber, no trousers either, so he was probably still naked. In the middle of a corridor. On the floor. As the _Captain._

_Shit._

Without thinking, he twisted onto his front in an attempt to stand up, biting back a scream that hit his lungs as his spine rebelled.

He wondered if he could survive with such a deformed spine.

Clenching his fists, he slammed one foot on the floor, then the other, hauling himself to his feet with a loud unsuppressed groan.

Glancing down, he noticed his entire front was dripping with blood, from his sternum and running down his stomach, dripping onto the floor.

_I probably look like something out of a horror movie._

He turned around slowly, painfully, trying to find his way to the turbolift. Which way was quickest? How far in the corridor was he? Was it quicker from the left turbolift or the right?

Out of gut instinct, he headed to his right, especially as there appeared to be a more complicated corridor to his left, which probably meant that route was further away.

He stumbled his way towards the turbolift, biting back a whimper and sob with every step he took, every movement jarring his injured spine.

Finally, he pressed himself into the turbolift door, almost falling inside as it opened, taking one more step inside before completing collapsing on the cold marble floor.

As the doors closed around him, he moaned two pitiful words into the voice recognition software.

“…Deck 5…”

The turbolift beeped and began to hum as it moved, alerting Jim that it was about to bring him home.

 

_TBC..._

* * *

 

 

 **Did you enjoy this piece of textual work? Do you desire it's continuation? It is only logical therefore to leave a kudos or comment.**  (please)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is found wandering the corridoors. But he won't tell anyone the extent of his injuries.

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for the support in the first chapter! I LOVE checking my emails and seeing comments and kudos from you guys!! :D**

**I hope you enjoy this one!**

* * *

 

_Jim stumbled his way towards the turbolift, biting back a whimper and sob with every step he took, every movement jarring his injured spine._

_Finally, he pressed himself into the turbolift door, almost falling inside as it opened, taking one more step before completely collapsing on the cold marble floor._

_As the doors closed around him, he moaned two pitiful words into the voice recognition software._

_“…Deck 5…”_

_The turbolift beeped and began to hum as it moved, alerting Jim that it was about to bring him home._

* * *

 

 

The room was spinning.

Jim was confused.

How did he get here? Why was he on the floor?

His quarters whirled round and around his head, his heartbeat thudding like a pair of drums in the distance.

He had managed to drag on a yellow shirt and pulled up some pants, but couldn’t remember where his shoes were kept.

Vaguely he knew that something was wrong, and the helpful side of his half-functioning brain decided to tell him he needed to find Bones.

Bones could fix everything. Bones always made everything better. He had to find Bones.

Weakly, he dragged himself across the room like a damn zombie in a horror movie and slammed a hand on the wall comm.

“Kirk to McCoy,” he mumbled, leaning against the wall and heavily breathing, “Bones…”

For some godforsaken reason, there wasn’t a reply. Usually Bones would jump on the comm if it was Jim, half expecting him to be, well, like this.

 _Need to find Bones…_ he thought to himself, _need to find bones…_

Not having the energy to move his hand and turn off the transmission, he stumbled towards the door, his vision blurring and spinning, the only way of navigating from using the various moving colours and shapes that resembled objects he recognised from when he wasn’t so dizzy.

As he shuffled through the too-bright corridor, he saw a red blob in the distance, moving around with a blue blob, both of which stopped moving around. Jim dragged his feet forward and gazed at the blobs like they were Christmas lights.

The lights too powerful for his eyes, he dropped his gaze to the floor, briefly aware of red mixing with his yellow shirt, and his mind began to drift off, wondering if the red blob had merged with him.

His knees wobbling, he nearly staggered over before he felt someone shouting his name in the distance. Or his rank, at least.

“Captain!” yelled a Scottish accent with the ringing in his ears, “What the hell ‘appened?”

Jim blinked up at him, pausing for a second, because he didn’t know what happened either. He just wanted to find Bones. The red blob looked more human up close, and appeared to be staring at his chest in shock.

“Need to find Bones,” he mumbled, pitching forward, and would have fallen flat on his face if it wasn’t for the red blob catching him.

“Ye mean our McCoy? Everyone’s in a meeting, ye didn’t transport up to the transporter room and weren’t answering ye communicator!”

Jim gazed at him, his mind blank, unable to form a sentence or piece any of that information together.

“C’mon laddie, let’s get you to sickbay,” and with that, he was hauled forward, he legs protesting against the movement as they just wanted to collapse into jelly.

“Need to find B’nes,” he repeated, suddenly unable to keep his balance anymore and falling into the man.

He grabbed Jim under the arms with an _oof_ and tried to lift him up, “I cannae carry you all ta way, Capt’n, you gotta try walking yourself,”

Jim moaned into the red shirt and hoisted himself upright, biting back a scream as it jolted his injured spine.

As they continued walking, or rather _hobbling_ down the corridor, the man beside him tried to retain a conversation, probably to keep Jim awake.

“What the hell happened down there, Jim? Did ye piss off a Klingon or what?”

Jim simply grunted, having no energy to use his memory. It required thinking, and he didn’t want to think right now.

 

As the pair finally managed to haul themselves into sickbay, the Scott yelled from behind him, startling Jim to awareness again.

He glanced down at his shirt, noticing how much had bled through, crimson red soaking through his yellow uniform and dripping all over the floor.

A woman dressed in blue made her way towards the shout—Chapel—then began sprinting instantly upon laying eyes on Jim.

“Oh god,” she whispered, swiftly taking Jim from Scotty and trying to support his weight. Jim sagged against her and nearly passed out.

“S’bleeding ev’rywh’re…” Jim slurred weakly.

“Philip!” she shouted across the room, trying not to drop the man in her arms, now deadweight.

Scotty took a step back and shook his head, “I just found ‘im in the corridor, said he was looking for McCoy,”

Jim mumbled softly into Chapel’s arm, “G’tta get B’nes…”

“Doctor McCoy is in a meeting right now,” she said with as much authority as she could muster, then shot a look to Scotty, “Help me get him over to this biobed,” she ordered, the engineer grabbing Jim’s legs and lifting them up so the two could carry him over.

When his brain finally registered his spine being jostled in the manoeuvre, Jim’s body tensed up and he roared out a scream.

“Quickly!” the nurse shouted, moving faster towards the unoccupied bed.

Philip Boyce marched into the room soon after, seeing the Captain plonked down and sprawled out on the biobed, screaming and stained with wet blood.

“Lord, what the hell is going on,” he demanded in shock, running the cubicle curtains around the outside of the room and immediately fetching a pair of scissors, “Let’s get that shirt off him and stanch the bleeding.”

Chapel nodded in agreement, trying to hush the hyperventilating Captain, “Calm down…calm down…”

“Get the hell off me!” Kirk bellowed, kicking around the biobed and setting more alarms off like dominos, “ _Bones!”_

Boyce tore through the shirt and nearly balked at the messy wound on Jim’s chest.

“Get some gauze pads, now!”

Chapel stopped the pointless endeavour to pacify the screaming blonde and dashed off to retrieve several gauzes, stuffing them over the wound and holding down the pressure.

Scotty meanwhile was observing, awestruck.

“ _Get off me!!_ I need Bones!” Jim roared, kicking and smacking at the physicians as if they were trying to kill him.

Boyce pinned down Jim’s arms to the table, eliciting a screech from the blonde, then darted his head towards Scotty.

“Page Dr McCoy, immediately!” he yelled, trying to keep Jim from ripping the wound open and making it even worse. Scotty wordlessly ran out of the cubicle and out of sight.

“Captain…Jim, listen to me,” Chapel urged, still holding down the padding over Jim’s chest, “You’re okay. You’re safe. We’re trying to help you.”

When her pleas went in one ear and out the other, she huffed in frustration and glanced around the room, “Sedative?”

Boyce glanced up, “Yeah,” and began searching the room.

“ _NO!”_ Jim yelled, throwing his head back against the bed.

Chapel stared at her hands over Jim’s wound, several thoughts running through her head while waiting for Boyce to return. She inhaled sharply.

Boyce strode back into the room momentarily, “I’ve got nortadine, he needs surgery so we’ll just anesthetize him here,”

Chapel nodded, moving herself out of the way while still keeping pressure to the wound.

“Do you need to swap?”

Boyce shook his head, “I’ve got him, don’t worry,” he mumbled, inserting the vial into a hypo and grabbing Jim’s arm.

He recoiled so hard it could have been mistaken for a seizure.

“I said _no!”_ he shouted, his voice cracking as if on the verge of tears.

Boyce tensed his jaw and tried to stay calm with him, “Captain, you could bleed out here in minutes if we don’t get you into surgery _now.”_

Jim violently shook his head, yanking his arm away and frantically darting his eyes around, breathing so fast the room was spinning again.

He couldn’t see who was coming at him anymore, there was only blurred images, aimlessly swatting at them to avoid getting hypoed.

As all sound in the room turned into high-pitched ringing, another blue blob appeared, quickly storming through the curtain and up to Jim.

His heart beating so fast he could hear it in his head, Jim moaned, trying to swat the other blue blob away, only for his face to be suddenly clasped by hands, a face shouting something that he couldn’t hear, and when he saw Bones’ worried face mixed with all the blurry images, Jim almost started sobbing.

 

“He’s refusing to be anesthetized, already smacked Chapel in the wrist and almost knocked the hypo out her hands,” Boyce was speaking to McCoy, watching him try to get the captain under control.

McCoy sternly spoke to Jim as if speaking to a misbehaving child.

“Jim, stop fighting me. You’re gonna rip open the damn wound and make it worse. Stop. _Now.”_

It took a few tries, but Jim clearly had begun to recognise who was yelling at him, as the flailing stopped and something in his eyes calmed.

Boyce took the moment to his advantage, retrieving the hypo again and grasping Jim’s upper arm in his hand.

When the biobed monitors started blaring a respiration warning again, McCoy stopped the doctor in his tracks.

“Put the hypo down,” he ordered, not removing his hands from Jim’s face, “You’re driving him up the damn wall,” he waited until the alarms had stopped blaring, making sure that Jim knew there wasn’t going to be any hypos, before reaching to the panel on the side of the bed and entering a couple of commands.

“Where the hell did he get this injury?” he demanded, tapping in another command and glancing up to Boyce.

The doctor shrugged and looked at Chapel, who also followed suit.

“Mister Scott found him wandering about in the corridors looking for you, I reckon it was those Klingons,” Chapel explained, watching McCoy closely.

McCoy rolled his eyes, pressing the obvious green button to confirm his orders. Why Jim always fell for this kinda shit, he would never know.

 _Meet me on my ship to discuss terms,_ they say.

 _Meet me on my planet alone,_ they say.

The Captain was an idiot.

Another alarm sounded; McCoy shot his head towards the monitor to look at it.

_Traumatic blood loss. Fuck._

He swiftly reached behind him, swiping a white facial mask from the wall and pressing it over Jim’s mouth and nose.

The reaction was instant.

“ _No…”_ McCoy heard Jim mumbling from under the mask, the fidgeting and kicking starting up again.

“ _Yes,”_ he taunted, lifting Jim’s chin up and holding the mask down firmly, “Night night, Jim.”

He saw Chapel holding herself back from sniggering, but didn’t say anything.

“…Don’wan’it…” Jim mumbled, his thrashing slowing down.

“No-one wants it,” McCoy checked the monitor, glad to see Jim was going to pass out any second. He sighed, looking down at Jim’s face, pushing away the pang of guilt he felt when looking at blue eyes blown wide in fear.

His hands were twitching, shaking, and Chapel had a hold of them, trying to calm him down.

Eventually his paternal side got to him. How fortunate for Jim that he had a kid of his own.

“ _It’s alright_ ,” he murmured behind Jim’s ear, trying to ignore the other staff in the room that were used to him just drugging patients to hell and ignoring their feelings, “You remember what I said a dozen years back? I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Just sleep.”

McCoy bit his lip while Jim stared on at him nervously, knowing this was the only way to get it done. Jim had mere minutes until his blood pressure dropped so low that he risked cardiac arrest.

He sighed, knowing how frightened Jim was right now. “Just breathe it in real deep for me, so we can get this over with,” he said gently, slowly pressing a thumb across Jim’s cheek in a circular motion; he didn’t forget Jim’s first reaction to hypos three years ago. “I have things to do, y’know.”

As per usual, Jim’s eyes sluggishly blinked in an attempt to stay awake, and was proving to be futile.

McCoy glanced up under his eyebrows, “Get me a laryngeal tube,” he ordered to whoever was listening to him.

“Yes sir,” Chapel quickly sauntered over to the equipment and went digging through.

“And he’s gonna need a transfusion.”

Boyce wordlessly spun around and followed the order, leaving McCoy to both hold the mask to Jim’s face with one hand and keep pressure on the wound with the other.

Looking back at Jim, blissfully the kid had finally lost the battle with the gas, and he quickly switched out the medication to an oxygen field. Setting up an IV in Jim’s arm was much calmer now he was asleep, and he did it with ease.

The fact he was doing it all with one hand was probably against the rules, but sheer skill and lack of staff was the only reason he got through it.

Boyce approached soon later accompanied by Chapel, with a few bags of o-neg blood, “Which hand did you use?”

McCoy tapped Jim left hand, “Here.”

Boyce nodded, swiftly getting to work setting up the transfusion with his other hand, while Chapel began intubating him with the laryngeal tube.

The kid was going to look like shit by the time the operation was finished.

…………

 

_Three hours._

McCoy thought to himself, sagging against the chair beside Jim’s recovery bed.

_Three hours of sealing a goddamn wound._

He was all nicely bandaged up now, although despite flooding his system with various types of painkillers, for some reason his pain indicator was still off the charts.

Jim had a high pain threshold, and something like this usually wouldn’t cause him this much pain.

McCoy frowned, picking up the white medical tricorder for the seventh time that minute and hovering it over Jim’s wound.

Nothing. It came back clear. It was _healing._

No infection, no leakage, it was all fine.

He sighed. Only way to find out if the machines were malfunctioning was to wait for the kid to wake up.

Upon doing so, McCoy had the time to think about what the hell had happened.

Firstly, Jim set off an emergency beam up signal from his communicator—which was all well and good until he was beamed up but wasn’t in the transporter room, the communicator wasn’t tracked and Jim was nowhere to be found.

They all had a meeting about it, wondering if the Captain had been caught in some kind of transporter malfunction, only for Scotty to come bursting into the meeting saying Jim was in sickbay, distressed and soaking with blood.

That still begged the question—just why the hell was he beamed into the middle of a corridor and not the transporter room?

Scotty could have panicked at the emergency light coming on and rushed the transport, but that wouldn’t explain how Jim ended up in the corridor—the transporter pads were miles away.

_“Mmmgghh…”_

McCoy’s head shot up, all previous thoughts out the window as Jim started to come around.

With no-one else around to see his not-so-abrasive side, McCoy leaned forward and pressed a hand against Jim’s forehead. Normal temperature, apparently.

“Hey kid,” he murmured, running his hand along Jim’s cheek to bring him to, “Open your damned eyes, I’ve been sittin’ here for half an hour.”

Jim moaned again, his head twisting from side to side.

His pain-indicator was still off the charts. It made no sense.

Exhaling, McCoy relented and dosed his friend up on more analgesics, deciding he’d deal with the aftermath of side-effects—which was very likely to be deliriousness.

When Jim’s eyes sluggishly opened and turned to meet him, McCoy raised an eyebrow.

“So…” he smirked, “What’d you do this time?”

Jim watched him for a while, as if trying to process that tremendously complicated sentence, before dropping his gaze to the blankets, not exactly focusing on anything.

“Ssss…” Jim slurred, taking a breath and trying again, “Ssss…bleeeeding,” he murmured, eyes glazed over.

“Not anymore it’s not,” the doctor encouraged, lightly tapping over the bandage on his chest, “All healing now.”

Jim blinked once…twice…licked his lips…then dragged his eyes up to meet McCoy’s face.

“…B’nes?”

“Been sittin’ here for half an hour, yeah.”

“B’nneesss…” Jim’s tongue lulled around a bit, like an infant that just found it’s mouth for the first time.

McCoy let him, assuming that this was a side-effect of the drug he just put him on.

After Jim apparently established he had a face, he rolled his head towards McCoy’s and lazily slapped a hand over his blue arm, poking and prodding at the material.

The doctor narrowed his eyebrows, “…the hell are you doin’?”

“…sss’nice…”

_Good god._

“Yeah? You like it?”

_It’s the friggin’ uniform._

“Uh huh…” Jim grabbed his friend’s sleeve in a weak fist and started shaking it, “I wan’ it.”

“You want the blue shirt?”

Jim shut his eyes, releasing his pathetic grip on the shirt, “Uh huh…”

“Well, I’m kinda wearing it at the moment.”

Jim fidgeted a bit, before opening his eyes again, “M’gunna change it…yellow…to blue…yeah…”

“Uh…okay.”

_What the hell else am I supposed to say to this crap?_

“S’gonna be blue everywhere…blue…everyone blue…”

“Everyone’s gonna be blue?”

“Uh huh…”

He snorted, “Good to know. It’s comfier than the whites.”

Jim gazed up at him, “…’ites?”

_Jesus._

“Yeah, you know, I wear the whites in here sometimes. The blues are better.”

_What kinda damn conversation is this?_

Jim beamed sluggishly, “I like the blues…”

McCoy huffed, “Good to know, kid.”

But Jim had already fallen back to sleep.

He sighed.

There was no explanation for the readings he was getting. There’s no reason why Jim should be in this much pain over such a small procedure. The drugs he’s on was pushing his body to its limits.

Hopefully it was just a setback and would improve overtime.

* * *

 

It didn’t improve.

 

McCoy was woken up from his half-slumber by a sudden ear-piercing scream from Jim.

He shot upright, giving his patient a three-second once over, grabbing the medical scanner when nothing looked wrong.

“What’s the matter?” he beckoned, rapidly trying to scan Jim’s rigid body, but nothing was coming back with concerns.

“Ss… _hurting_ …” Jim hissed through clenched teeth, grunting and panting at the pain.

McCoy dropped aside the unhelpful scanner and quickly snapped on some gloves, “Where’s it hurtin’?”

“Dunno…just… _hurts_ …” Jim murmured, then moaned into the pillow as another wave of pain washed over him.

The hell was going on here?

Pain indicators were off the charts again, but medical scanners reported everything was fine.

“Lemme see your wound,” he enquired, gently prying the gown apart and taking a pair of scissors, slicing through the bandages.

When the material fell apart to reveal the wound, McCoy prodded around the outside of the scar, trying to feel for tenderness.

“Does it hurt here?”

Jim shook his head, “No…s’not there…dunno…just…fucking make it… _stop_ …”

What was he supposed to do? Drug him again repeatedly for the rest of his life? Clearly the pain wasn’t caused by the surgical wound, it was something else…and he had to find out what it was on his own.

Another option was to see if there was something inside him that the medical tricorders weren’t picking up, like a creature of some sort, or a very minor tear that was causing very major agony.

“Alright, jus’ sit tight for a second, I’m gonna be right back,” he explained, taking a step backwards before his arm was abruptly pulled into a death grip.

“ _Bones_ …it fucking _hurts,_ man…”

McCoy inhaled deeply, “I know, Jim. Just…ugh. Goddammit,” he input commands for the biobed to release some more strong analgesics. “That should kick in soon, just hang in there,” he murmured, hurriedly prying Jim’s hand off of his sleeve and striding away to find help.

* * *

 

Jim inhaled and counted in for seven.

_One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…_

And exhaled for seven.

_One…two…three…four…_

He grit his teeth—he couldn’t do it.

Even the stuff that Bones had put him on made it difficult to concentrate. All he could feel was the constant waves of agony.

As another upsurge of pain rocketed up his spine; Jim turned and moaned into the pillow in frustration, gripping the bedsheets until it passed.

How long was he supposed to suffer like this? Time was ticking by so slowly, every second feeling like minutes.

The chronometer illuminating from the wall monitor taunted him, the digits taking too long to increase in number.

“Captain?”

An impassive voice.

Jim groaned quietly, turning onto his back again and facing his first officer, who was somehow here in medbay instead of on the bridge.

“…Spock…?” he croaked, his fists curling up as another surge of pain boiled at the bottom of his spine.

Spock craned his head; while his voice may have been emotionless, his face certainly was betraying him.

“Why are you…here…and not on the…” Jim bit his lip, “…bridge?”

“I found myself…unable to perform at my peak efficiency,” his first officer admitted, a tinge of worry in his voice.

Jim sighed. “Are you…sick?”

Spock raised an eyebrow, “Negative, I am merely here to enquire on your wellbeing.”

_Oh._

Jim would have stifled a laugh if it wasn’t for the pain, “You’re…relieved of duty…because of…” he squeezed his eyes shut, stopping to breath for a second before continuing, “…me?”

Spock paused, watching Jim curiously for a moment, “I am…” he froze, considering what he was about to say, “Emotionally compromised.”

Jim snorted, then gnashed his teeth together.

_Fuck. Don’t laugh, that hurts._

“Who’s in command?” he breathed out, releasing his fists as the pain temporarily ebbed away.

“Mister Scott,” Spock confirmed, then furrowed his eyebrows, “You seem to be in a substantial amount of pain. Should I contact Dr McCoy?”

Jim shook his head; Bones would start getting upset if he was constantly reminded that he couldn’t do anything to help his pain.

“No…I’m on the good stuff now, anyway,” he forced a smile, the corners failing to reach his eyes, “It’s not exactly…working,”

Spock nodded, and took a step closer.

Jim gazed up at him, a thought suddenly passing through his mind, “Can you just…end it?”

Spock stared at him, “Pardon?”

Maybe that sounded a little dark. Whoops.

“I mean…can you knock me out? With your…you know…whatever it is you do.”

His friend’s face relaxed at that, clearly assuming that Jim had meant something else. Brown eyes stared into his, trying to figure out whether it would be for the better good.

“I do not know if that is appropriate,” the Vulcan conceded, his hands clasped behind his back, “It would be an unprovoked attack on a superior officer.”

Jim tensed his fingers, forming them into a fist again—the burning was slowly returning.

“ _Please,”_ he begged, beginning to pant again, “I can’t…take anymore. I’m begging you, just…” he grunted through parted lips, his spine feeling like it was being sawed apart, “…put me out my misery.”

Spock frowned, “Captain…”

“Spock,” Jim croaked, his eyes beginning to well up with tears again, “ _Please!”_

The Vulcan considered this for a while longer, watching his Captain writhe around the biobed in pain.

“Is it not my duty to ensure that you are safe whenever conceivable?”

Jim nodded, “ _Yes._ And I’m gonna fucking die if I have to put up with this any longer—” before he could finish his sentence, another wave of blinding agony, stronger than the others, drilled up his spine and elicited a hoarse screech from his throat—he hurled his face into the pillow to quieten his shrieking, the white noise drowning out all other sound in the room while he could only focus on the splitting pain.

As the moment began to dissipate, he was left panting, breathing heavily into the pillow, arms twitching as the pain subsided.

Too ashamed to turn back around and look at the face of his first officer, he remained there, face stuffed into the pillow, refusing to let go of the death grip on the bedsheets in case the pain returned.

He waited for the next wave to come, waiting for the signs, the tingling burning feeling that boiled at the bottom of his back—but it never got that far.

Fingers suddenly pried on his head, and immediately upon contact, Jim felt as if he’d lost control over his body. He sagged against the bed, limp, although subconsciously aware that he was still awake.

The pain left him—it was bliss.

He felt nothing. It had been taken away from him, as if transferred to another unfortunate being.

And then it hit him.

“S…Spock?” he slurred, his mouth trying to catch up with his half-functioning mind. The essence of another being lingered around him. “Are…you…trying to…meld with…me?”

“Adequately enough to ease your suffering,” came to voice of his first officer, speaking with such ease it was like he wasn’t near him at all.

The fingers left his head, and Jim nearly recoiled, desperate for another moment of relief—but the feeling remained. And so did the feeling of his weakness, as if in a constant state of waking from a deep sleep.

“Wha’ did you do?” he slurred, unable to open his eyes. It was as if Spock was controlling his body. And he was pushed into the corner with only words to keep him grounded.

“I will not be able to keep this state continually for long,” he heard beside him, Spock’s voice loud in his ears, “However, perhaps it will provide you some momentarily relief without resorting to unconsciousness.”

“It has to go somewhere,” Jim knew, realising what Spock had done, “You’re feeling it instead, aren’t you?”

There was silence for a few seconds, confirming what Jim had theorised.

“Yes. Pain is a thing of the mind. It can be controlled. At least, through me.”

Jim, struggled to think of a reply; clearly the weakening effect of the pain wasn’t alleviated—but he’d take it.

“How long…can you stay like this?” he knew it wasn’t long before he would be subjected to reality again.

“Perhaps an additional six point five three minutes,” Spock assured, giving Jim an extra while to bask in the peacefulness of his painless fake world, “Or, until Dr McCoy returns. I do believe he would not be supportive of this technique.”

Jim snorted, “I bet he won’t.”

 

Distantly, Jim heard the hissing of doors opening and shutting, but it was so detached and far away it was if it was played back on a recording device instead of right behind him.

 

“What the hell are you doin'?!”

_Bones._

It seems his pain-free experience was about to come to an abrupt end.

 

“I am relieving the Captain’s pain, something that you clearly are unable to do.”

_Damn. Does he want to start an argument with Bones or what?_

“Don’t pin this on me, dammit. He’s sick, and seriously so. There’s a dozen drugs running through his system, do you have any idea how it could affect you mentally?”

“Negative.”

“Exactly. I’m sure he feels all nice and cozy, but I’m orderin’ you to break whatever voodoo shit you’ve got goin’ on right now, before you end up on the biobed next to him!”

There was silence, and clearly Spock was trying to decide whether disobeying the doctor would be worth it. Then suddenly, all at once, without warning, a fiery explosion of pain rolled over him, unforgivingly wreaking havoc on his body.

Jim didn’t think twice about slamming his face back into the pillow and sobbing, despite both his senior officers standing over him.

They clearly just stood there and watched, unsure of what to do, before Spock finally spoke up.

“I believe I have noticed something that would be of interest to you.”

He heard Bones laugh in disbelief, “Oh yeah? And what’s that? You’ve just discovered how to give yourself unrepairable brain damage?”

“Negative, doctor. During my prolonged connection—”

“—Brain damaging connection, you mean.”

“…with the Captain, I have been able to pinpoint a precise location for his discomfort. Or, in this case, an area.”

 

More silence.

Lengthy, uncomfortable silence, in fact.

 

Jim snivelled into the pillow, and closed his eyes.

“Show me.”

Bringing an aura of needed comfort, he felt the presence of his first officer grow closer to him, before there were warm fingers under his stomach and shoulders, rolling his rigid body onto its side.

He bit his cheek, forcing himself not to make a noise, the position putting pressure on his already rioting spine.

Firmer, strong fingers of his doctor grasped hold of his shoulder now, while the other carefully peeled back the gown Jim was wearing.

With his bare back now exposed to the air, Jim clenched his jaw and panted softly, trying not to make too much of a fuss, not wanting his friends to think they were hurting him.

He was left in that position for around ten seconds, not a word was uttered from either of men standing behind him.

Then, finally, as Jim was beginning to lose the battle to keep himself quiet, he heard a soft mutter from his doctor.

“ _…Fuck.”_

 

_TBC..._

 

* * *

**Did you enjoy this piece of textual work? Do you desire it's continuation? It is only logical therefore to leave a kudos or comment.**  (please)

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Bones and Spock now knowing what the Klingons did to Jim, he is faced with a dilemma that is way out of his comfort zone. Meanwhile, Jim begins acting strangely...

_With his bare back now exposed to the air, Jim clenched his jaw and panted softly, trying not to make too much of a fuss, not wanting his friends to think they were hurting him._

_He was left in that position for around ten seconds, not a word was uttered from either of them._

_Then, finally, as Jim was beginning to lose the battle to keep himself quiet, he heard a soft mutter from his doctor._

“ _…Fuck.”_

* * *

 

 

Jim inhaled shakily on his bare side, aware that Bones now knew of the reason for his pain, and would probably want to run a dozen and five tests for it.

Keeping something like this to himself to avoid triggering his stupid medical phobia was never going to work.

“Fascinating.”

More silence.

“It’s not fascinating, damn it! There’s a massive fuckin’ incision down his back!”

_Way to put it lightly, Bones._

He inhaled through clenched teeth.

“…Can you put me down now?” he hissed, the pain beginning to get too much.

“What?”

Jim shut his eyes, taking a few deep breaths to stop himself from screaming at him.

“This _position_ is hurting. Like, a lot.”

There was a frustrated sigh, “I need to do a scan first,” said the disembodied southern voice behind him.

Jim inhaled sharply, “ _Just_ … _!”_ he exhaled unsteadily, trying to keep his temper in check, “Just put me out or… _something,”_ he pleaded, sick of feeling like this now, “I don’t wanna be awake anymore.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, “I don’t blame ya. But I want to know why you kept this a secret from us. Especially me, Jim.”

Jim shut his eyes, pure refusal just running through his veins now. He was _done._

“Leave me alone,” he spat, wincing at his rolled from his side onto his back again, “Or help me. Pick one.”

He stared at the pastel wall, half expecting a lecture to commence from behind him, but instead he heard a soft sigh, Bones purposefully leaning over him so Jim could see him.

“I _am_ trying to help you, Jim. But I can’t do that if you flat out refuse to cooperate.”

Jim huffed, “You took an oath to do no harm, yet you’re just letting me sit here in pain.”

He knew that was the wrong thing to say—hell, of course it would be—when Bones’ face dropped.

His eyes narrowed, and Jim suddenly knew he took his self-pity a step too far.

He turned to Spock, "Get him on his stomach, I'm gonna figure out what the hell happened whether he tells me or not."

The Vulcan seemed to hesitate, clearly the after effects of melding with Jim's emotional mind still reeling, before he was firmly grasped by the shoulders and pushed onto his stomach.

"Wait," Jim gazed up at Spock, then to Bones, who just seemed to be the definition of pissed off, "Bones, wait, _please_ ,"

This wasn't right. Bones was supposed to be helping him, not scaring him.

" _Please_ , I'm sorry--"

"Hush, Jim," the doctor murmured, waving a medical PADD over his back, "I'm tryin' to get an X-Ray on this thing,"

_Oh._

Maybe that was Bones' concentrating face and not his angry face, then.

Or maybe they were both the same.

"Huh."

Huh? What do you mean huh?

"Well, no wonder the scanners didn't pick it up. Jim, your spine is fused with...something else, it's tripped up all our instruments."

Yeah. A Klingon spine, that was what those bastards were trying to give him.

Jim knew what his human spine was fused with, yet he couldn't find the courage in him to tell.

"Tha's weird," he mumbled into the pillow, pretending not to know why, "Still hurts."

Bones scoffed, "Well of course it still damn well hurts, all I did was scan it..."

The doctor stopped, took a deep breath, and sighed.

"Jim, if you don't tell me just what the hell is going on here, you know it's going to end with a dozen unnecessary tests," Bones' eyes softened, forcing himself to calm down, "Just fess up. Tell me what's happened."

Jim swallowed hard. He didn't want to explain in detail everything the Klingons did to him. The painkillers were only just started to have an effect on him, thinking back to the agony he was feeling on that alteration table brought fear that the pain would return.

While Jim contemplated coming clean, Bones was off ranting again his medical theories again.

“The uh…the Klingons did this to you, didn’t they?” the doctor turned to look at Jim, waiting for a reaction but he only lowered his gaze to the pillow.

Jim shrunk into himself, “Maybe…”

“So, they did, huh,” when Jim fell silent again, Bones grabbed Jim’s chin, “Look at me, damn it. Tell me.”

“ _Yes! Damn it, Bones!”_ Jim yelled in frustration, “I was pinned face down to a table and they cut me open while I was awake. Happy now?”

The doctor stared at him, trying to decipher whether this was sarcasm or not; because whatever Jim was telling him was pretty brutal, even for the Klingons.

McCoy wiped the sweat from his brow, clearly becoming stressed trying to drag the information out of the kid, “Don’t suppose you know why?”

The captain groaned, flopping his face down onto the pillow, while Bones stepped closer and ran a finger down the scar on Jim’s back.

“It’s a very perfect incision…almost like it was from a machine.”

Jim muffled words into his pillow, “ _Bingo_.”

McCoy’s left eyebrow shot up, “Wait,” he stormed over, taken aback, “You mean it _was?_ A damn machine performed surgery? Who the hell would—”

“Bones,” Jim moaned, twisting his head to face his friend, “They tried to alter me into a Klingon. You guys got me out in time but…” he grunted, stuffing his face back onto the pillow and throwing his hands over his head.

Well, he had certainly opened that can of worms. The silence from beside him was telling. He really had stunned his friend this time.

He decided that staring into the blackness of the pillow smushed against his face was much preferred over confronting Bones and his many emotions.

They sat there for a while, Jim unmoving from his position for so long that he was close to falling asleep. His breathing was even at least, each exhale loud against the pillow.

Still breathing heavily, he finally heard footsteps from behind him, Bones apparently broken out of his stupor and deciding to actually do something about it.

“Spock, do me a favour and get Chapel to find me a surgical team.”

Oh, he forgot Spock was there. That Vulcan was always so quiet…

The reply was instantaneous. “Of course, doctor.”

While he focused on the footsteps of his first officer disappearing out of the room, Jim was abruptly brought back to the present when he heard gloves slapping onto hands.

He hated that noise. It was so…medical. It meant whoever donned the pair of latex was planning to do something intense to him. And he didn’t like it.

“Was it just your back they skewered? Or are you hiding somethin’ else?”

Bones sounded stressed…fed up. Well, so was he.

“Just my back…” Jim muttered, still refusing to move his face from the pillow. This position was very painless, and to hell with Bones or anyone else if they thought he was going to move even an inch away from this temporary respite.

He heard more footsteps tap across the room, several sounds of metal clashing together and trolley wheels moving around making his heart stutter.

“Damn, kid, doesn’t take much to spook you, does it?”

Jim snorted into the pillow—abruptly gasping when something cold and papery was slapped onto his back.

“I’m going to do a biopsy, check for Klingon DNA, because the last thing we need is for me to fix your spine but your DNA merges with theirs anyway. ‘Cause then we’re in trouble.”

Jim moaned in protest, digging his face as deep as he could until the material as physically possible. He heard about biopsies, and how they can hurt. Well, the painless façade was good while it lasted.

“How’re you managin’ the pain? You haven’t shattered a glass window in a while,” Bones retorted, Jim wriggling as a gloved finger started probing his back.

“F-fine,” he stuttered, cursing himself for sounding weak, “Stop touching me, I hate the feeling of it.”

It reminded him of how the doctors treated him after Tarsus. The rubbery texture of the gloves pressing against his skin was like a permanent traumatic imprint on his memory.

“I need to find the start and ends points with a scan, Jim. I don’t want to accidentally puncture the extra fused bone.”

He groaned loudly in frustration—when will it end?

 

 

 

“I won’t give you any local anaesthetic, you’re on so many drugs that you wouldn’t feel your arm being ripped off.”

Jim jolted awake, having fell asleep at some point during Bones’ poking and prodding. The awakening from his nap still an effect on him, so he just murmured _‘mkay’_ and nudged his head back into the pillow to fall back asleep.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but this pillow was extremely comfortable. It was _unbelievable._

It was like he had walked into a mattress store back on Earth, and just woke up on a brand new foamy dreamy bed, all cushiony and soft and—

“So, what shade of blue is Earth’s sky, Jim?”

Jim raised his head from pillow at the odd question and blinked at the wall, “Uhh— _AHH! F—”_

“That method does not work, doctor.”

Jim scrunched his hands into fists around the pillow, moaning into the cotton. Obviously, Bones had inserted the biopsy needle without warning him.

“ _Well_ , you’re Vulcan and he’s human, had to test out the theory again, just in case,”

When did Spock get back in here? Probably while he had his head down on the pillow of satin and softness.

The newfound pain from the needle brought back the misery of before, “Boooones!”

“Keep still, Jim.”

_Thanks for helping, you piece of sh—AH!_

“FUCK!”

“Goddammit; nurse, deal with him will you?”

Jim felt the presence of someone on the other side of him, his hand being taken by the nurse, an attempt at comfort. “ _I hate him…”_

“He’s just tired and stressed, that’s all,” she murmured, giving his hand a squeeze, “You’ll have to excuse his lack of patience.”

Jim moaned quietly, “But it hur—” he gasped, squeezing the nurses’ hand hard. A stinging was festering at the centre of his spine.

“Breathe through it, Jim,” proclaimed the firm voice of his doctor, that was imperturbably torturing him.

“…He’s not being very gentle,” he whispered to the nurse, forcing his eyes to open again.

The nurse reassured him “Like I said, he’s stressed out,” a semi-loud whining noise began to fill the room.

God, what was he _doing?_

He clenched his jaw as the device hit skin, and simultaneously tightened his grasp on the nurse’s hand.

_God, Bones, that hurts so bad…_

The high-pitched squealing noise went on for ten seconds, and so did the ascending levels of pain, before the pressure was released. Jim relaxed and released a sigh of relief.

“Shouldn’t be hurtin’ this much,” he heard Bones say from above him, wielding the weapon that was causing the pain.

Jim grunted, “That’s bad, right?”

Several thoughts began to wash over his head. What if the damage was irreparable? What if he was going to be paralysed? Didn’t that Klingon say that they had to move on to the next procedure or he’d be paralysed?

“No, agonizing pain’s a good thing, Jim.”

Jim could almost smell the sarcasm steaming from Bones’ forehead.

He looked up at the nurse beside him as innocently as he could, and whispered curiously, “What’s he doing?”

She didn’t look away from Jim’s face, “Dr McCoy? He’s just taking a bone biopsy, it shouldn’t be long.”

Jim glared—he knew it was a biopsy, he didn’t know what the hell Bones was doing to his back. Clearly it must have been something sinister as the nurse was trying to avoid talking about it.

He grit his teeth, “It would be much better if you put me on more painkillers or something. This seriously hurts like a—”

 

* * *

 

 

Jim gasped, startled awake suddenly.

“I’ve activated the stasis field,”

 

“Christ, Jim! What the hell is wrong with you!”

“Nurse Chapel! Get me a sedative!”

 

Jim found himself breathing heavily, his heart pounding away in his chest, but he didn’t know why.

He was pinned down to the biobed by Bones, who had both hands planted on his back, near-anger in his expression.

Trying to shuffle out of his grip, Jim balked when he found he couldn’t move, his heart in his throat.

“Bones, I can’t…” he strained, trying to will himself to move but failing, “Wha’ goin’ on?”

All he did was pass out from exhaustion and wake up again to shouting.

Bones cursed under his breath, grabbing Jim’s forearm, “You know damn well what you just did,” he muttered, and Jim sharply gasped through his nose when a stinging sensation settled into the crook of his elbow. Mere moments later he blacked out again.

 

* * *

 

Bones stepped back from the biobed, Jim having slumped unconscious under his hands. He twirled the hypo between his fingers, before tossing it into the waste bin.

“What the hell was that?” he remarked with a hint of worry, taking a tricorder from the tray and hovering it over Jim’s slack body.

Chapel approached them apprehensively. Jim had slashed her on the cheek with his nails, the bastard.

“Did you get the biopsy, doctor?” she watched him, as if making sure that he was actually asleep.

“Yeah, just about. He’s a lucky bastard, you engaged the stasis field in time. Would’ve tore open the incision.”

With the stasis field, a patient wouldn’t be able to move. After Jim had lashed out at Chapel, she had run to enable the device, probably more to protect herself from him than making a sensible medical decision.

McCoy stared at the tricorder as it was feeding back the results, and scowled at it.

_Why the hell is this technology so useless?_

“This damn piece of junk ain’t picking up a thing,” he grumbled, adjusting the settings and trying again.

Chapel shrugged, “Maybe he was just in a lot of pain,” she offered, moving to Jim’s side and prepping him to turn onto his back again, “You did say yourself the amount of discomfort was unusual.”

McCoy didn’t bat an eye, “I’d put that down to…whatever they did to his spine,” he sighed, placing the tricorder back onto the tray as it wasn’t coming up with anything useful, “Take that bone sample to be analysed, check it for Klingon DNA, or anything unusual.”

“Yes doctor.”

The nurse left with the sample immediately, leaving McCoy to watch over a drugged sleeping Jim and wondering to himself just what the hell happened.

 

* * *

 

 

Faint mumbling in the distance.

At least, that was what it sounded like to Jim.

He felt lethargic, fatigued, weighed down to the bed, unable to open his eyes. If he just stopped thinking for a second, he would fall back to sleep again.

Soon, there was a burning feeling in his wrist, travelling up his left arm. The mumbling became louder, coherent and intelligible.

A heavy sigh brought an uneasy feeling to his stomach. “C’mon Jim, open your eyes. It’s just us, for now.”

Oh, it was Bones.

He remembered now.

Everything had suddenly gone blank, but before that, Bones was holding him down, yelling at him for doing something he couldn’t even remember.

He was laying on his back this time, instead of his stomach.

Gingerly, he pried his eyes open.

“…’ones?” his lips were almost stuck to each other.

His friend forced a smile, “Yeah. Sorry about sedating you, Jim, but ya lashed out. Was my fault, I think, if you were in that much pain…”

“I don’t remember getting mad, Bones,” Jim croaked, his throat still raw. Bones frowned.

“You don’t? You scratched Nurse Chapel across the face,”

Jim blinked. He couldn’t remember any of that. “What did I say?”

He shrugged, “Nothin’. Was having a great time drilling a hole into your back before you suddenly lost it. Chapel turned on the stasis field so you couldn’t move,” Bones paused, his eyes wandering off, “I had uh…assumed that the pain made you snap,” he sighed, “I’m sorry, Jim.”

Well, that explained where the high-pitched whining noise was coming from. Bones was drilling a damn hole into his back.

“Thought you were doing a biopsy?” he murmured, sleepiness weighing him down again. His friend nodded, seeming distracted as his attention waived around the room.

“Well, yeah, I was. I stuck the needle in and had to use a laser to…do you even want to hear this?” Bones snorted, his eyes finally meeting Jim’s. There was a faint smile on his face.

Jim shrugged, “It’s done now…isn’t it? What’d you find?”

Bones pursed his lips, and pulled out a tricorder with a grip look on his face.

_Not good, then._

“You want the good news or bad news first?”

Jim tensed his fingers around the biobed blankets, “Good news.”

He nodded, “Alright. Well, the good news is that there was no Klingon DNA found. So, there’s not a chance they implanted anything that would cause your genetic structure to change—or at least they didn’t get to it in time,” he paused, reading over the tricorder again before speaking.

“The bad news is that the damage done to your spine is significant, but I’m sure you noticed that, what with you screaming my sickbay down a few days ago.”

Jim smirked, despite the heaviness of the news.

“If you see here…” Bones leaned over next to Jim, holding the tricorder screen in front of him so both of them could read it, “Your spine has been rapidly fusing with whatever they’ve done…whatever that machine was. There’s vast changes in the structure, as you can see here…” he swiped a finger across the screen, revealing his scan and the scan of a normal human’s spine.

Jim felt his blood run cold, “…shit. _That looks bad.”_

McCoy nodded grimly. “Yeah. Your body won’t be able to take it. If we don’t reverse it, you’ll almost definitely become paralysed. Or even die.”

Jim fiddled with his fingers, “So um…what do I take? What drugs?” he asked, trying to avoid the inevitable, “Do I come back here for hypos? Or do I just take pills? Or—”

“Jim,” McCoy interrupted him, a dark look in his eye, “You _know_ that drugs can’t reverse this. The bone has deformed immensely, there’s unknown Klingon structure fused into your spine. _Fused_ , Jim.”

“I know…”

“This isn’t a pathogen, or a virus, or some pesky bacteria. This is seriously disfigured spinal bone that without treatment, could kill you in a few days. That’s why you’ve been in so much pain. Your body just can’t take it.”

“Bones…” Jim swallowed hard, taking a deep breath to stop himself from shedding tears. He would _not_ cry. He’s a Starfleet Captain. Captain’s don’t cry. “There’s got to be another way. Please. Can we just keep it there and make my body accept it or something?”

Jim saw the doctor tense his jaw, “We can’t, Jim. Like I said, this isn’t a virus, or something that your body is just rejecting. In fact, your body isn’t reacting at all to it being there, it’s the fact there’s incomplete wiring of the spinal cord and just the amount of disfigured bone fused to your—”

“No—”

“We need to get rid of it completely, Jim—”

“No. I won’t,” Jim spat, his jaw clenched, “I have control over my body, you can’t just do whatever you want to it. Not for something like this, even if you’re CMO.”

“Jim, it’s going to kill you—”

“I said _no,_ Bones,” Jim forced out furiously, his voice breaking, “You can’t make me. You _can’t!_ ”

“Jim,” Bones said slowly, trying to put his hand on Jim’s arm but he just jerked it away, “You _need_ surgery.”

Jim felt sick at the word.

This wasn’t some easy surgery doctors did all the time. This wasn’t a “he broke his knee” or “he got injured in an away mission” or “he accidentally got stabbed by a wild bear”. This was something major. Something he had never done before, and luckily so because he wouldn’t be able to deal with it.

His spine was _fused_ and _disfigured_ for god sakes. And Jim knew within five minutes of being under that machine, there was going to be disastrous consequences.

No wonder he had beamed into the corridor on rescue. It was likely the transporter wasn't picking up his pattern properly and ended up reforming him half way across the ship. If only he had looked into it sooner...he could have escaped this.

“Jim?”

Bones brought him back to his current little nightmare.

“Not now,” he spat out hastily, his breathing too fast, “Just not now. Okay? Not now. Please. Not now.”

Bones nodded, “Alright, not now. Nothing will happen right now, I promise.”

Jim nodded shakily, allowing Bones to place his hand on Jim’s shoulder this time.

Bones was always one to get things done immediately. If there was a problem, there was _never_ an appointment made. It was immediate treatment, no questions asked. And if anyone fought against him, he’d pull out the CMO rank out of his ass and gave them no choice. It’s why he was praised as a good doctor.

But Jim couldn’t do that.

Jim couldn’t cope.

And luckily, Bones understood, and didn’t do that with him, not this time.

 

McCoy worriedly watched over Jim, who appeared to be zoned out, staring blankly at the biobed sheets.

He rubbed a comforting hand over his shoulder, both to encourage him and help ground him. But he just continued absentmindedly staring, as if in shock.

This was normal. He sighed, giving Jim a final pat on the shoulder before leaving his stool, giving a nod to Chapel, who was walking in at the same time.

“Is he okay, doctor?” she said rather solemnly, also having known the results of the tests.

McCoy shook his head, “He’s taken it hard. Damn moron can’t even take a hypospray without freakin’ out, and now major surgery…”

He remembered giving Jim a couple of shots a few years back so he could safely go on shore leave to Fardabos. Jim had freaked out, refusing to get the shot and it escalated into a panic attack. McCoy had no idea how he was going to get Jim through major surgery.

“Should I start prepping him?” the nurse asked, gesturing to the many array of sedatives on a tray.

McCoy shook his head again, to Chapel’s surprise. “No. I want him to process it,” he stated, strolling to a medicine cabinet and pulling open the top draw, “Recovery for something like this is going to take weeks, and it’s going to be extremely painful,” he explained, taking out a medibracelet from the drawer and setting it up.

“If he goes into the OR screaming like he did a few days ago, he’s gonna come out the other side extremely unwilling to put up a fight for his life,” he added, waltzing back over to Jim’s side, while Chapel merely watched him. Jim’s eyes were shut, meaning he had probably fallen back to sleep, which surprised him. “I did listen when we had our psychology classes, y’know.”

Chapel smiled at him, unsure of what else to say. The situation was dire, and neither of them could see a way where Jim would go in willingly.

McCoy grasped Jim’s wrist with his free hand, snapping the medibracelet over it and setting the unlock controls to his emergency override passcode.

Despite the overhead display monitor of vitals, McCoy wanted to know what Jim was doing at all times, even when he was heading back to his quarters to sleep. At least with the bracelet the information was transmitted to his PADD.

“How long are you going to put it off for?” Chapel asked curiously, her eyes trained on the white bracelet now clipped around Jim’s wrist.

McCoy shrugged, “Ah…not long. Even now he’s at risk for permanent spinal cord injury,” he explained, subtly pulling the blankets up a little over Jim’s chest, before grabbing his PADD to leave, “I’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, doctor,” Chapel smiled, gesturing to Jim and speaking quietly, “I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

McCoy returned the smile, “Thanks Christine. You’ll call down to me if he struggles?”

Chapel suppressed a laugh, “Of course I will, unless I want to get a lecture from my boss.”

He smirked, “And I damn well hope you don’t. Goodnight, nurse.” And immediately he took off out the door, PADD under his left arm, letting the doors swish shut behind him.

 

 

 

* * *

 **FYI:** Transporter malfunction was not the reason Jim was beamed into the corridor.....

 

 **Did you enjoy this piece of textual work? Do you desire it's continuation? It is only logical therefore to leave a kudos or comment.**  (please)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's odd behaviour get worse. Bones decides he's had enough of putting things off, and takes matters into his own hands, only to regret it later.

_“How long are you going to put it off for?” Chapel asked curiously, her eyes trained on the white bracelet now clipped around Jim’s wrist._

_McCoy shrugged, “Ah…not long. Even now he’s at risk for permanent spinal cord injury,” he subtly pulled the blankets up a little over Jim’s chest, before grabbing his PADD to leave, “I’ll figure it out.”_

_“I’ll see you tomorrow, doctor,” Chapel smiled, gesturing to Jim and quietly said, “I’ll make sure he’s okay.”_

_McCoy returned the smile, “Thanks Christine.” And immediately he took off out the door, PADD under his left arm, letting the doors swish shut behind him._

* * *

 

 

What was he supposed to do?

That question kept McCoy awake at night, literally.

 

Jim was at serious risk of paralysis or death, what with the absolute mess that was his spine.

 

McCoy had actually managed to fall asleep, and  _stay_  asleep, for a whopping thirty minutes. His persistent worrying about Jim and his condition forced him to wake up nearly every five minutes.

A sedative lay on his bedside table, and he was tempted,  _oh god was he tempted,_ to use it and actually get a full nights rest. Or, five hours rest, considering he was needed back on duty soon.

Alongside the hypospray was his PADD, resting and alert on the bedside table, displaying a constant feed of Jim’s vitals.

And it was ridiculous.

He was a  _doctor_. This stuff happened all the time. Hell, it happened  _before_ Starfleet, back when he was actually working in hospitals and clinics. He had to detach himself from patients at night because he  _had_  to.

But this was Jim. And for the life of him, he could  _not_ detach himself from Jim. He wasn’t a patient, he was—

_Beep—! Beep—! Beep—!_

McCoy’s eyes shot open— _Beep—! Beep—! Beep—!_

The PADD alarm.

_Shit._

Hurriedly, he jumped out of bed, clutching the PADD and storming out the room. He hadn’t even changed his clothes back to his uniform; he left his room with just his nightwear on.

 

He flew into medbay, tossing the wailing PADD aside and heading for Jim’s private room. “What in the name of god is going on?”

Chapel suddenly emerged from outside Jim’s room, looking relieved to see help coming.

“Dr McCoy!” she shouted in urgency, “Kirk’s lost control again, Boyce is holding him down!” the nurse instantly disappeared behind the shutting doors again.

_Christ…_

_Not again, Jim…_

He took off across the room, sprinting towards the door and sliding inside before it could finish opening.

The sight that beheld him told him that there was something was more seriously wrong with Jim than just a damaged spine.

A similar sight to yesterday while he was doing a biopsy.

Jim was lashing out at every doctor within reach, biobed monitor blaring and flashing red numbers, pure rage in his eyes for reasons unforeseen, with Boyce holding him down to the bed and barking orders at Chapel.

Within moments, McCoy slipped into doctor-mode and took control of the situation.

“Have you given him a sedative?” he demanded, grabbing a hold of Jim’s flailing arms and pinning them to the bed, while Boyce struggled to keep Jim’s shoulders down.

“Haven’t had a chance, he’s tried to lash out at Chapel again,” Boyce was straining against Jim, as if the kid was suddenly granted superhuman strength.

 

He leaned directly over Jim’s face.

“ _Jim!”_ he demanded in a vain effort to get his attention, but his eyes just looked as if he was elsewhere, “Jim. Look at me.”

Instead, the blonde thrashed, roaring something incoherent, almost sounding as if in another language, before lunging over McCoy again.

The doctor launched himself closer, sending Jim’s arms flailing over his shoulders as he tried to escape from his grip.

Jim didn’t even seem lucid.

So, he pressed a restraining hand onto Jim’s forehead, and onto his chest, in a last-ditch attempt to ground him into reality. This was going on for much longer than last time.

“Jim…the hell is wrong with you?” he muttered, grunting when the blonde reared forward and nearly released his grip on him. “Dammit!”

Then finally, not a moment too soon, Jim completely sagged back down to the bed, rageful eyes quickly turning into confusion, then fear.

McCoy recognised this disorientation from the last time, and waved his hand away at Chapel and Boyce, signalling them to let go before he could down spiral anything further.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, swiftly taking a seat beside him to get down on his level, “You went off the damn deep end again, but I saw it for myself this time.”

Jim’s panic-stricken eyes were staring frozen at McCoy’s face, as though he was desperate to say something but unable to speak.

The alarms were still shrieking, a fast, low pounding from the monitor imitating Jim’s rapid heartbeat, not planning to slowdown anytime soon.

Jim’s gaze slightly dropped towards his hands, moving them up to McCoy’s arms, grasping them feebly—a silent question, as if trying to ask whether he was real.

Unbeknownst of the two physicians behind him, McCoy tried to help Jim in his mystifying mission to determine if this was reality, placing his own hand on top of Jim’s, squeezing it gently and waiting for some kind of response.

As the rapid pounding of the heartrate monitor began to slow down, McCoy looked up from under his eyebrows, making eye contact with Chapel and giving a telling glance to the sedative laying in a tray.

She nodded, stepping past Boyce and quietly fetching the hypospray.

“If you’re quite done beating my lights out,” McCoy grumbled good-naturedly, offering a smirk. He was blocking Jim’s view of the room behind him, which was a godsend…and entirely on purpose.

While McCoy sat on Jim’s left bedside and prattled nonsense about his oh so deadly attack, Chapel moved to Jim’s right side, while the doctor tried to ensure Jim didn’t look away from him.

“You nearly went flying over my shoulder, ya bastard,” he scorned, grabbing his abandoned PADD and quickly shoving it in front of Jim while Chapel moved to grasp his arm. Jim’s eyes were relaxing now, Bones’ ranting actually having a calming effect on him. That he was safe.

“You see this? That’s how fast it was going. You were sleeping here…then suddenly, bam. Huge panic. I was sleeping too, y’know, ya damn panic woke me up, so thanks a lot for that…”

He trailed off, Jim’s eyes closing as Chapel tossed the hypo away.   
Once again, Jim was sedated into a deep sleep.

_Yeah, and god knows how long it’ll last._

“I’m  _shocked_ he didn’t feel that,” McCoy sighed, yet again deserting his PADD on the tray with a  _clang._

Chapel rolled her eyes, “That’s because  _you_ didn’t do it. One of these days you’re gonna jam a hypo into someone’s arm so hard you’re gonna see the forsaken thing come out the other side.”

McCoy snorted, shaking his head, and tugged the messy array of blankets up over Jim’s body.

“Do you really think these are panic attacks?” the nurse asked, checking the medibracelet on Jim’s wrist to see if it was still intact. Luckily, it was.

“Absolutely not,” McCoy snapped, relief flushing into his stomach as Jim’s vitals began to dissipate back to normal, “He’s just dissociating outta the blue, beatin’ the shit out of someone until suddenly he returns to reality.” He ran a hand over Jim’s forehead, trying to brush the hair out of his clammy face.

“Ain’t nothing normal about that.”

………

_De Ja Vu._

This time when Jim woke up, he remembered everything immediately.

He was just sleeping peacefully, in fact he was  _dreaming_ about something…he forgot what it was, but then suddenly—he was awake, thrashing, screaming, lashing out as if the people that had come rushing in to help him were his enemy.

It took a while for Bones to come down, but when he did, Jim felt…trapped. As if he was stuck at the back of his mind but something else was forcing him to react that way.

As he returned all the way to consciousness, with Bones rambling on about how stupid he was being, he remembered being able to just listen, terrified, but clinging onto his friend’s voice for dear life.

Before there was a sting in his arm and he passed out immediately.

 

But now…

He was waking up again. And this time, he was in control of his body.

Jim assumed that considering there was a sting in his arm and then nothingness—he had passed out from a sedative, only just beginning to wake up, and it wasn’t because he was going to lash out on his friends again.

Or, he really hoped so.

He opened his eyes, the world instantly becoming solid as he did so.

There was a blue blob sitting next to him, running a hand across his forehead, in a soothing motion.

Jim wondered how long this man had been sitting there.

He gazed up, trying to find who it was, but that clearly didn’t do anything other than get the attention of the man—the hand froze half-way brushing his fingers through Jim’s forehead, before there was a heavy sigh, and the hand was taken away.

_Bones._

“How you feelin’, Jim?”

He didn’t know. Not really. He was confused; wanting to know why he kept passing out and then feeling like someone else was in control of his body.

But he wouldn’t say that. He didn’t want to worry Bones.

“…’ones…” the words felt like effort to leave his lips, his tongue almost stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He blinked sluggishly a few more times,  _damn that sedative,_ then maneuverered his hand to place on Bones’ arm.

“M’right here kiddo,” the doctor murmured, another hand placed on top of Jim’s, “You damn well slept through the entire day.”

Jim, licked his lips, wincing when he came across how dry they were. “Whazzatime?” he slurred, hardly managing to keep his eyes open to look at him.

Bones snorted, “It’s 2100 hours. You’ve been asleep since…I dunno, 0900?”

His eyes closed, “Thazzalot of time…” god, he was so tired. That was one hell of a sedative he was hit with.

“Uh huh,” Bones groused into his ear, “Well, you need to drink something, your hydration is in the tank.”

At the mention of liquid, Jim licked his lips subconsciously, and opened his eyes again, “Water?”

Something flashed in Bones’ eyes, before it was quickly hidden by a mask, “I wanna give you somethin’ else. Should help you uh…feel better.” He gave Jim a pat on the hand before sliding his hands away from the kid’s grasp, moving out of his line of sight.

While waiting, Jim stared at the small patch of light luminated on the ceiling from the monitors, the rest of the room pitch black.

“Where did Spock go?” he asked nonchalantly, realising he hadn’t seen the Vulcan for a while. He would’ve thought he’d have been down to visit him by now.

“Ah…” Bones sounded preoccupied, probably from making whatever glass of hydration he was planning, “He’s been mostly on the bridge. But came down to see ya while you were asleep. Stayed for like…uh…twenty minutes, jus’ staring at ya, till I chased him out.”

Jim frowned, “Why? Maybe he was meditating or something.”

He heard Bones scoff from the distance, “Jim, he was staring at you motionless for twenty minutes straight. He was creeping me out.”

Jim grinned stupidly at the thought, trying to sit up when he saw Bones come back over with a glass in his hand.

“Try some of this,” he offered the glass to Jim, taking a seat beside his bed and watching albeit apprehensively.

Jim sipped a bit, and held himself back from gagging at the disgusting taste. Bones obviously just tried to make something new for him to drink and Jim didn’t want him to feel bad.

But Bones was still looking…off. His face wasn’t in its usual drawn frown-lined fashion. He just looked troubled, his eyes glazing over off into the distance.

Jim stopped sipping the awful concoction for a second and glanced at his friend. “You okay, Bones?”

Mentioning his name shot a look of surprise in the doctor’s face, raising an eyebrow at Jim.

“What? Yeah, I’m okay, Jim. Jus’ tired,” but he changed the subject, offering a smirk, “And don’t think I haven’t seen you pulling faces at my special drink!”

Jim grinned, “Pulling faces? No, it’s lovely,” he countered, trying to ignore his screaming taste buds as he downed another mouthful.

When he eventually finished the ‘appetizer’ and set it aside, he wriggled back down into bed. He couldn’t help but notice that something was still bothering Bones.

As time ticked on for another five minutes and they sat in contemplative silence, Jim decided to pipe up.

“Shouldn’t…you be asleep or something?” he whispered, noticing how his words were beginning to slur and not feeling too against going back to sleep himself.

Bones snapped his eyes away from the wall and pursed his lips at Jim.

“I’ve got somethin’ I need to do, first,” he paused, shifting his gaze from Jim’s glass back to the wall again, “It’ll take me a real damn long time, so best do it at night when people aren’t gonna need ya.”

Jim nodded, struggling to pay attention to Bones’ face. It was beginning to blur.

“Go to sleep…” he murmured to his friend, “Get someone else t’do your work…”

Bones smiled down at him, “I’m the only one who can do the job.”

Jim hummed in reply, rapidly falling deeper and deeper into some tranquil state that he couldn’t seem to control. It was kinda nice, and he wouldn’t fight against it…it felt weird. Sleep deprivation was definitely a problem right now.

“You feelin’ tired?” Bones voice sounded far away, but he managed to feel a warm hand on his forehead.

“Mmhm…” he kept his eyes closed, enjoying the peaceful feeling, the steady breathing, and knowing Bones was beside him.

“That’s real good,” Bones sounded detached, and briefly he felt a breeze, his mind telling him that Bones had left him.

“B’nes…?” he slurred, wondering where he went.

“Jus’ give me a second here, Jim,” came the southern voice, still in the room with him, thank god.

When the hand reappeared on Jim’s forehead seconds later, he was happy to know his friend at returned.

“I’m here,” Bones confirmed, the distant sound of wheels rolling as the doctor returned to him.

Jim forgot to reply, merely relishing in how nice and tranquil he felt when he felt Bones grasp his hand, moving his fingers across it in a way that soothed him.

He lay in silence for a while, wondering when he was actually going to drift off to sleep. Eventually, Bones accidentally pressed too hard on Jim’s hand as it briefly felt like it had been scratched by his nails.

“Ow,” he murmured, opening his eyes slightly, “B’nes ya need t’cut your nails,” he giggled, sighing as the laughter zapped his energy.

Bones looked at him worriedly, “Sorry, kid. And yeah, I mean, I haven’t been able to shower in days, because of  _someone_ stuck in my goddamned sickbay.”

Jim couldn’t fester the energy to do anything other than smile in return, rolling his head to the side to get in a more comfortable position to sleep.

He let his sluggish eyes watch whatever Bones was doing, which was hardly feasible considering how dark it was. His friend was holding a little white tube, glancing up at Jim for a second before moving his thumb to the top of it. Then, the little white liquid started moving into the even smaller tube that had appeared in the back of his hand.

Jim lethargically balled his hand into a fist before releasing it again at the strange feeling. He gazed up at Bones, who was fascinated with his hand.

“…Wazzat?” he murmured, wiggling his fingers.

“It’s uh…it’s…coconut. Yeah. It’s coconut.”

Jim grinned and nearly laughed if he had the energy, “B’nes…b’nes…b’nes…” his lips felt dry and weak, “I’m ‘lergic to coc’nut…”

Bones glanced up at smiled at him, “It’s uh…special coconut, just for you.”

He beamed, “Spesh…coc’nut…’jus f’me…” The feeling of weakness began to spread throughout his body; Jim felt weighed down to the bed, too tired to move a muscle, his mouth fell slack. His eyes slipped closed, and he waited for sleep to get him, but it took so long.

“Jim,” he heard Bones’ detached voice floating over his oblivion, “You trust me, don’t you?”

Jim parted his lips, his tongue too weak to form a word, so instead he just hummed a “nnhnnn…”

“Whatever happens after this…” there was silence, and for a while Jim thought he had floated off to sleep with his mind was still active. But the voice continued, “I just…hope you’ll forgive me. This was probably the wrong way to go about it but…ah…it seems like the only way. I didn’t want to scare you.”

Jim had no idea what Bones was blabbering on about, so he just repeated his grunt of acknowledgement.

“I’ll do what I can to fix you…but just know I’ll be there all the damn time when you wake up. You can shout at me for this then, or whatever.”

Jim was about to make another noise of acknowledgement, but he briefly felt his head being tipped back, fingers tightened around his jaw, something soft pressed over his mouth, while a cold gush of sweet-smelling air blew into his face…and then he was blissfully released into nothingness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Is this even right?_

The relentless words were spiralling around McCoy’s brain right now, while he held a mask full of inhalational gases to Jim’s face.

He had already drugged him into compliance and tranquillity by tricking him into drinking it. And with the kid docile and weak, stuck an anaesthetic in his arm, called it a  _coconut_ of all things, then just to top it all off, practically suffocated the kid in inhalational anaesthetics as he just wouldn’t  _go._

He did every single thing he could think of under the sun to make sure Jim didn’t know what was happening, or what he was planning, and to make him as happy as possible before making him pass out.

It sent him into an emotional turmoil—this now left Jim’s life in his hands once again. If Jim woke up tomorrow and found the surgery wasn’t successful and was paralysed…McCoy might just resign as a doctor.

Now sure that Jim was  _definitely_ and  _finally_ unconscious, he set the mask aside and began the process to intubate him. It was almost as if, although Jim’s mind didn’t know what McCoy was doing, his body did, and was forcing him to stay awake to ‘protect’ him.

Of course, he knew it wasn’t possible; but that’s what it felt like. At least he was asleep now, and McCoy could finally get this over with.

 

* * *

 

 

For one of the first times in his life, McCoy really wished he wasn’t a doctor.

Trudging into the surgical suite with a multitude of other nurses, he stared reluctantly at his friend—no, his  _patient’s_ body, laying flat on his stomach on the table. An overhead light lit up the patient’s back, the monitors steadily beeping away to say  _yes, he’s still alive, no, he’s not in danger…yet._

And McCoy was the one that was about to put him in that danger.

Donning nitrile gloves, because  _someone_ was allergic to the latex, he trudged over to the patient in his scrubs, the medical mask covering his face making him feel more suffocated that he should’ve. He had never felt like this before performing surgery before.  _Never._

It was almost empowering, having someone’s life trusted in your hands, and having detached himself from the patient every single time, he would always get straight to work in confidence to do what he did best, as the best surgeon in the entire fleet.

But right now he was just wracked with anxiety and apprehension, wanting nothing more than to dump this responsibility on someone else’s shoulders and leave.

Unfortunately, this was an extremely delicate procedure—a procedure that no one, obviously, has ever had to perform before, and none except McCoy himself was qualified to take lead.

Nurse Chapel threw him out his thoughts, “His back is sterilized from the cervical vertebrae to coccyx,” she announced, herself also clothed in scrubs, watching him and awaiting instructions.

McCoy nodded, staring at the marked line on the patient’s back for the incision and retrieving a laser scalpel. The line was a few inches longer than the scar that had been left by the machine Jim was put under.

“The foreign object is fused from T4 to L2,” he proclaimed, hovering the laser over the marker point and igniting the device. His heart was beating out of his chest. “We open him up, extract the foreign material from his spine without damaging the spinal cord,” he lowered the laser edge to the top of the incision point, then run it down the marker that continued for nearly the entire length of Jim’s back.

Once the incision had been made, McCoy took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

 _Pull yourself together dammit,_ he chastised himself.  _You’re a doctor._

He thrust a hand out, “Forceps.”

_Slap._

As the spine became exposed, McCoy couldn’t help but think about the fact Jim was wide awake at this point when the Klingons were doing the same thing to him. It made him feel sick.

Speaking of, the foreign Klingon material was abundantly clear, completely fused nearly the entire length of Jim— _no,_ the  _patient’s_  back.

He stared at it abhorrently, wondering just how the hell he was going to separate it without either killing or paralysing him.

“We’ll have to remove some discs to get to it,” he sighed, grasping the handle of a laser drill from a ceiling-attached machine and pulled it over, “Watch the spinal cord readings.”

There was a muffled cluster of yes sir’s, before McCoy powered on the laser drill and lowered it to his patient’s spine.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“Jim?”_

_“Jim. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”_

_“He’s not responding.”_

_“Jim.”_

 

An eyelid was pulled back, harsh lights sending his vision white.

He knew he was drugged…weak. He couldn’t move.

His mouth was slack, he could feel it slightly drooping open, his muscles completely limp. Lips dry and cracked, he tried to make a noise.

He moaned, not particularly knowing why. He just moaned…

 _…inhaled_ …

_….moaned…_

_…inhaled_ …

_….moaned…_

_Is this real?_

 

Something darker entered his vision, but everything was too blurry to see anything other than colours.

A warm feeling wrapped around his limp hand, squeezing it gently and rubbing circles into his palm.

 

_“Jim, I need you to squeeze my hand.”_

 

His fingers twitched, too weak to do anything other than that. Closing his fingers around the other hand in his felt like trying to move your hand when you’ve just slept on it and can’t feel it. But he did it.

 

“That’s real good. Now…”

His feet suddenly fell cold, a hand grasping his ankles and then releasing them.

“Can you feel that?”

_“…nnnnhhhmm…”_

“Good…”

There was silence. Jim let himself slip back into the void, moaning sluggishly again.

Something rubbery pressed up against the soles of his feet, “Push against my hands here, Jim.”

He didn’t want to. He was tired. That required more than just moving his fingers.

“…nnnghhh…” he whimpered in protest, wanting to fall back into oblivion.

A kind female voice suddenly shot up behind him. “Push against the Dr McCoy’s hands, Jim. Just do what he says.”

He groaned in reluctancy, weakly managing to get his feet to slightly push the doctor’s hands backwards before he gave up and let his feet fall slack on the bed again.

“Alright, that’s good,” the doctor on the other side of the bed said quietly.

Before Jim could register anything else, he was plunged into blackness again.

* * *

 

 

_Pain._

_Pain._

_Pain._

_Oh god it hurts._

_It hurts…_

_It hurts…_

_It hurts…_

_Oh fucking hell it hurts…_

_Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop…_

 

“Captain?” a calming voice broke through the fog taking over his brain, a mere millisecond distraction from the unbearable burning feeling searing through his veins.

Jim couldn’t speak. His jaw was clenched shut, breathing heavily through his teeth, making grunting noises as the thousand burning needle pricks jammed directly into every muscle in his body.

“Captain?” the voice repeated, “Jim?”

His face distorted into an agonising shriek, his fingers squeezing into a fist so hard that his nails were proving to be a distraction to the excruciating pain.

Jim was aware of a hand briefly landing on his shoulder—then jolting away, as if burned by the touch of his skin. He wouldn’t be surprised, he was already on fire.

Something hurt  _so bad,_ but he couldn’t figure out where it was.

He was left to endure the blinding agony he had woke up to for another few seconds, his body vibrating and quivering through the sheer force of his tense tightened fists, before strange fingers delicately but swiftly made their way to his neck, delivering a pinch that almost felt like an electric shock—then he was out again.

* * *

 

_TBC..._

 

 **Did you enjoy this piece of textual work? Do you desire it's continuation? It is only logical therefore to leave a kudos or comment.**  (please)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim finally wakes up from the nonconsented surgery Bones inflicted on him. Things get emotional, but something is happening to Jim that not even the captain himself knows about.

**A/N: Remember when I said when this was only going to be 3 chapters long? Yeah...nah.**

 

* * *

 

_Jim was aware of a hand briefly landing on his shoulder—then jolting away, as if burned by the touch of his skin. He wouldn’t be surprised, he was already on fire._

_Something hurt so bad, but he couldn’t figure out what it was._

_He was left to endure the blinding agony he had woke up to for another few seconds, his body vibrating and quivering through the sheer force of his tense tightened fists, before strange fingers delicately but swiftly made their way to his neck, delivering a pinch that almost felt like an electric shock—then he was out again._

* * *

 

 

_Am I dreaming?_

 

_I think I’m floating…_

 

With the faint whispering surrounding him, Jim didn’t dare move a muscle, for the last time he was awake, there was excruciating pain every time he twitched.

He tried to tune into the voices around him, as a distraction from the dull pain that was once again slowly making itself known.

 

“I don’t know sir. Spock told me that he suddenly started screaming, clawing himself.”

“And then?” a southern drawl, he recognised it. It brought him much needed comfort.

“He said he tried to take the pain away, but it was too overwhelming for even him to handle. Then while in a kinda Vulcan shock, he just knocked Kirk out! That’s all I know.”

“With a nerve pinch?”

“I assume so, sir.”

There was a heavy sigh, a sigh of someone who has tried to ask this question fifty times. “Thank you Lieutenant. You can go.”

The only sound in the room after that were the footsteps of one man leaving. But once the footsteps had faded away, there was no noise, only that of the low hum of surrounding machines. Which meant the other man had magically teleported out of the room.

“I know, you’re awake, Jim.”

Or not.

The voice was much closer than it was before, now right next to his ear.

With his eyes still closed, Jim parted his lips, attempting to come up with something to say, but his mind was too foggy and fatigued to do anything past the instructions of opening his mouth.

“You’re probably gonna be pissed at me, I know that. What I did…it was damn wrong. I think it goes against my oath, but I’m not sure. You didn’t exactly give me permission to do this to you.”

Jim’s heart thrummed away in his chest at the serious tone of the man. Why would he be pissed off at this man? He was in pain, and clearly the man was here to help him with it.

“But I had to save you. It was my job. I couldn’t just…I couldn’t force you to go in there unwillingly. And most damning of all, I couldn’t watch you die. I had to do _something,_ Jim, and you were gonna suffer either way.”

There was a long pause, which gave Jim’s brain a chance to process the information and try to decipher something _logical from it._

“I’m sorry.” The man’s voice cracked quietly, sheer guilt written all over his tone.

Jim didn’t know what the man was apologising for, but he couldn’t stand the emotion in his voice.

It was disjointed and his tongue wasn’t working properly yet, but through sheer will, he parted his lips again, and croaked out, “…s’okay…”

The long stretch of silence meant that Jim’s voice had actually stunned the man, probably not expecting him to speak. But hell, he couldn’t stand it when other people were upset, and for some reason this man’s voice seemed really familiar and important to him.

“It’s not okay, damn it,” the voice grumbled, still covered with obvious self-loathing, “You’re in so much goddamned pain because of me. Hell, not even Spock could touch you to relieve it.”

Jim’s brain suddenly _pinged_ at the name ‘Spock’, as if the word was sealed away somewhere and was slowly trying to drag it back up to the surface.

“Apparently he became so overwhelmed with the utter agony passed through you both that he jolted away and nerved pinched you out of shock. And now guess who’s gotta do all the damn paperwork.”

Jim curled his fingers into fists as the dull aching became a constant throbbing throughout his entire body, unable to pinpoint the exact location, because _everything_ just hurt. The southern man seemed to notice.

“It’s gettin’ worse again, isn’t it? The effect is starting to wear off.”

Jim’s bottom lip began to tremble against his will, his eyes still squeezed shut, “ _…hurts…”_

A heavy sigh. “God, I know, Jim,” a hand reached out towards his head, cupping his face into their hands as a thumb gently massaged his cheek, “I know it hurts, darlin’, I know it hurts.”

Cautiously, Jim opened his eyes, relieved to find the entire room was nearly black and the lights shining on him were very dimmed.

The man leaning over him registered in Jim’s mind, all the cogs suddenly beginning to turn and put everything into place.

“…Bones,” Jim croaked, staring pleadingly at the only man that had the power to take it all away.

Heavy hazel eyes look red and puffy, as if he was in as much pain as Jim was in, which wasn’t true.

“I’m sorry,” Bones repeated quietly, his eyes sad and sincere, “I’m sorry.”

Jim snivelled, inhaling a shaky breath, his breathing beginning to shudder as he began to cry.

“Bones…” Jim whimpered, his hands trembling as he tried to grasp the blanket, “What the hell did you do to me?” his voice was almost a squeak.

Those words appeared to hurt almost as much as he did, as unshed tears began to well up in his friend’s eyes as soon as he uttered that sentence.

“God, Jim, don’t…” Bones sucked in a breath himself, closing his eyes for a second, “…don’t say that.”

“I didn’t want this,” Jim croaked, his voice barely a whisper, “You tricked me…”

He vaguely remembered Bones handing him a glass of something that tasted disgusting, claiming it was for ‘hydration purposes’. He wanted to kick himself for not questioning why it tasted so bad. Everything after that was blurry, only little bits retained in his brain, before he had woken up here.

Bones, his friend, that had _promised_ he’d give him time, had drugged, sedated, and performed surgery on him without his permission.

His apparent friend, however, didn’t reply to the accusation, knowing full well himself that it was true. And it was clear just by the sad look in his eyes that he was ridden with guilt. But that didn’t take it away.

So, his mind only focused on one thing, “ _Please, please, please,”_ Jim cried, desperately wanting to curl up, but searing pain ripped through his body every time he moved a muscle, “ _…make it stop. Please. Please…”_

He saw Bones purse his lips and sit back, before he closed his eyes himself and let the stream of tears run down his face, while he sobbed, rigidly on his back, crying harder as the sobs just made his back arch.

Bones leaned in closer, his breath tickling Jim’s ear.

“I’m gonna put you back to sleep for a while, alright?” his voice had managed to retain it’s usual authoritive doctor tone, “Tell me this time if you approve.”

Jim nearly stopped himself from screaming, “ _PLEASE! Just DO IT!”_

It was almost like he was being teased with the idea of peace and tranquillity. He heard a mumbled low _‘okay’,_ before something sharp pinched his neck.

Out of habit, he raised his arm to reach for the hypo bite, throwing his head back and shrieking as his muscles felt like they were being torn apart.

He vaguely felt Bones’ hands on his arms, leading them gently back down towards the bed and muttering quiet reassurances, until the drug took hold and put him back to a sleep that he was so desperate for.

* * *

 

 

Bones sat back in his chair, raising a shaky hand to dispose of the hypo he just shot his friend with back on the tray.

 _At least this time he gave permission to sedate him,_ he tried to reassure himself, only to berate his thinking out loud.

“Having him screamin’ at you to put him to sleep because of something _YOU_ did doesn’t make it right!”

“Doctor?”

McCoy snapped his mouth shut, holding his breath and turning around to face Spock, who was looking extremely concerned and standing right in front of the door.

“Come in, Spock,” he murmured, taking a breath to compose himself, “Come sit down.”

Spock cautiously stepped into the threshold of the room, carefully pacing towards a stool, picking it up, _not rolling it,_ and carried it over beside McCoy.

He placed it onto the floor and sat on it, ram-rod straight, as if in a meeting with admiralty.

McCoy forced a smirk, “C’mon, Spock, you can relax in here. You’re allowed to slouch.”

Spock turned to him rigidly, clearly something in his eyes burning with the desire to say _Vulcans do not slouch,_ but he just sagged, staring intently at the biobed railings in front of him.

“I take it I am to take disciplinary action?”

McCoy snorted, “No Spock, you’re good.”

Both men stared on in silence, neither of them finding it within them to look at Jim.

Spock spoke up, turning to McCoy with furrowed eyebrows, “I had assumed that you…?”

He snorted, “That I was going to put you on report? No, you had a normal reaction,” he paused, then sighed, finally glancing up at Jim, “It wasn’t out of maliciousness. You did it to help him.”

Spock quirked an eyebrow, and spoke softly, “Much like you did.”

McCoy froze, staring at the Vulcan who for once in his life had some sincerity in his eyes.

“No, Spock…what I did was against my oath as a doctor.”

Spock continued to defend him, “He is not dead, and he is not paralysed. One of which would have very likely to have occurred, had you have not intervened.”

McCoy opened his mouth to speak, but instantly slammed it shut, a sob threatening to escape as he tried to utter his next sentence.

_He’s hurting so damn much because of me._

“It is not your fault,” Spock seemed to be able to read his mind, “That he is hurting. He was hurting beforehand. The _Klingons_ were the root cause of his pain.”

He cocked his head, contemplating his next words for a few seconds before stating matter-of-factly, “As the weeks begin to pass, Jim’s pain will lessen. If you did not _do_ what you must, in the time that it takes for Jim to recover, he would have been dead, or permanently paralysed.”

McCoy found himself nodding, agreeing with the green-blooded bastard. Spock wasn’t all that bad. Hell, perhaps he had a better bedside manner than he did.

“You’re in the wrong profession, Spock,” he teased quietly, making eye-contact with him for a second before turning away to grab his PADD. A simple distraction.

McCoy expected Spock to say something along the lines of _you think that I am pursuing the wrong profession?_ And an argument following from there, but the hobgoblin once again surprised him with his reply.

“Negative. You merely underestimate my ability to empathise with others when the need arises.”

* * *

 

 

The next time Jim woke up, he found himself sobbing before he had even returned to consciousness; a response to pain that his body was growing so accustomed to that he did it without thinking.

As usual, there was someone there with him—Bones, of course—hushing and holding him like a child. At the reminder of similar multiple experiences as a child, his mind tried to sneak back into territory that he didn’t want to even begin to get into.

“You need to try and move onto your side today,” Bones’ voice groused into his ear, meaning that he had slept through the entire night, “You’re gonna end up with sores all over your back.”

Jim managed a grunt, squeezing his eyes shut in refusal, “Nooo…”

A sigh tickled his ear, “C’mon, Jim. It might even do you some good. Open ya eyes and look at me.”

Twitching fingers would send agonizing pain throughout his arm. He didn’t want to think about what moving his entire body onto his side would do.

Slowly, and as grumpily as possible, Jim forced open his heavy eyes, glaring daggers into Bones, who just shook his head at him.

“With me now, c’mon,” Bones wrapped his arms around Jim’s shoulder and waist, gently pulling him over onto his side as humanly possible.

Jim had automatically opened his mouth, expecting to be screaming in pain, but nothing ended up coming out as the feeling was nowhere near as bad as he expected.

“I added another opioid to the mix a few minutes ago. Should’ve kicked in by now, it’s the only medicine that reacts well with the fentanyl,” Bones confirmed upon seeing the confusion on Jim’s face, “How does that feel?”

Jim paused to take inventory of himself, only to agree that the pain he was experiencing upon waking up had somewhat diminished. He nodded his approval.

Bones smiled, “Alright, that’s good, we’re getting somewhere,”

Jim couldn’t help but agree; despite his friend’s idea of dosing him with drugs, whatever he’d added to the concoction had definitely taken the edge off.

He breathed a shaky sigh of relief, his face still rough from the dried tears of mere minutes ago.

Bones gestured his head towards the wall behind Jim, “While you’re on your side, I’m gonna have a look at my handiwork,” he explained, stepping to the side and behind his back.

Jim’s mind suddenly threw up red flags in alarm, “Are you gonna touch it?” he croaked, voice hoarse from being unused.

There was a low grumble of consideration from behind him, “I’ll be gentle.”

Jim’s eyes widened, his focus leaving the wall opposite him to getting Bones away from touching his back, “No. No, don’t touch it,” he panicked, beginning to kick his legs in desperation, “Don’t touch it, come back—come back!” he frantically hit his hands onto the front of the bed, fidgeting and trying to inch away. But being drugged and on his side, he was too afraid to roll onto his back again.

“Try not to move, Jim,” the southern drawl was noticeable from behind him, “I’ll jus’ lift the gown up and have a look at the scar, alright?”

But Jim had already gotten himself worked up into a state again, kicking his legs in frustration at the lack of control he had over the situation.

An exasperated sigh, _“Jim,”_ then a hand landed on his legs, trying to still them, “I’m serious. I’ll turn the stasis field on if ya don’t stop.”

The threat of paralysis was the only thing that recoiled him back to his senses. Jim immediately stopped kicking, slumped back down to the bed, and folded his arms over his chest like a pouting child—at least, the best that he could while on his side.

 

“There,” Bones announced upon dropping the gown back down, “Didn’t feel a thing, did ya? All’s good so far.”

Jim mumbled under his breath, “ _So far.”_

His friend snorted, “Don’t start getting cocky with me, kid. Remember who’s got ya on all the drugs here.”

Jim smirked, wriggling his fingers to the end of the biobed, clasping hold of the mattress to keep him still as much as possible.

The painless feeling was a welcome break from what he had been experiencing moments before. Except, well, the itchiness all over his back. His doctor probably sprayed it with something merely to piss him off.

He gazed up to Bones in the best innocent looking face he could muster, “Can I have visitors?”

Bones dragged his eyes away from his PADD and down to Jim, snorting, “You sure you’re not gonna scare ‘em away with your screaming and crying? It might be _detrimental_ to your ego,” he mocked good-naturedly.

Jim rolled his eyes but continued his imploring, “I’m fine right _now_ —it’s a distraction, right?”

At least he would have something else to focus on—and he hadn’t seen his crew other than Spock in days.

Bones relented, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Fine. But as soon as you start feelin’ a little iffy, they’re gonna be thrown outta here so fast their head will spin. Got it?”

Jim nodded eagerly, rubbing the palm of his hand against the blanket to stave off the itchiness, “Sure, I can live with that,” _or I just won’t tell you,_ “Can they come in now?”

Bones dragged his hand across his face and sighed, “Yeah, who’d you want first? One at a time, by the way,” he obviously wanted to ruin all of Jim’s fun.

Jim furrowed his eyebrows, “Uhura first?” he suggested, while Bones immediately whipped out his communicator seemingly out of nowhere and began yelling orders at the bridge.

The thought of his friends coming to see him brought Jim newfound energy he didn’t realise he still had in him. He only hoped to what deity was out there that Bones’ magic painkillers would last until after the visiting was over.

 

Uhura’s arrival didn’t go unnoticed considering the entire room was suddenly swamped with the smell of perfume the second that the doors hissed open.

His eyes still closed, Jim broke out into a grin and relaxed against the pillow. The itch got excited too.

“Glad you finally made it,” he teased, frowning at the hoarseness of his voice. The waft of perfume followed Uhura as she circled around the biobed.

“Glad _you’re_ finally awake, _Captain.”_ Although her tone was snarky, her eyes had lit up in relief. “How have you been?”

Jim opened his mouth to answer, but McCoy’s busy face behind Uhura caught his eye, giving him an eyebrow sideglance as if to say _I know to hell you’re gonna lie._

“I’m fine,” he lied, ignoring Bones’ eyeroll as his prophecy was fulfilled, “How’s everyone on the bridge?”

She shrugged, “Missing their Captain. It’s been dull,” then she whipped her head towards him, “When are you coming back?”

Jim set his focus on Bones, who once again just silently shook his head and ducked back down to work.

“Um…not long,” he lied again, knowing he was going to be stuck in his biobed for a while, “I need a favour.”

Her eyes perked up, “Yeah? As long as it’s not…devilish.”

Bones suddenly snorted in the background and grumbled, “ _You’ll be lucky.”_

It was Jim’s turn to roll his eyes this time, “Uh… _okay, this is weird,_ but can you, uh, scratch my… back?”

Bones’ head glanced up at that, staring at Jim, then to the monitors, before frowning and returning back to his work.

Uhura chuckled, but shrugged, “Sure, whatever makes you feel better.”

Jim smiled, wriggling on his side a bit, trying to get comfortable.

As Uhura trailed behind him, McCoy suddenly stood up from his desk and stormed towards her.

“Lieutenant,” he barked, causing Jim to freeze. Was something wrong? “Hold on,”

He heard Uhura step back behind him, before McCoy’s hands were on his back and lifting his shirt.

A shocked feminine gasp.

“Jus’ want you to know there’s a scar here. It’s pretty uh…bad, right now, his surgery was only yesterday.”

Jim scowled, staring coldly into the distance. He only wanted a back scratch—no need for a medical showdown.

“Try to avoid it if you can.”

He heard Uhura clear her throat uncomfortably, “Um, yeah, of course. Will it hurt him if I do it then?”

“Nah, if he was hurting he wouldn’t have asked.”

Jim flapped his arms aimlessly, “Bones! I just want my back scratched!” he cried in frustration, “Go away!”

Bones scoffed under his breath, stepping away from Jim’s back and parading over to his workstation again, that he had conveniently setup inside Jim’s private room.

Because apparently Bones can’t even leave him on his own now.

Jim sat in silence, fumingly staring at Bones until apprehensive fingers touched his back, then slowly began scratching.

He sank into the biobed.

_Oh yes. Thank god._

There was a definite pleasure in his back being scratched.

How do _cats_ feel? They must be in heaven all the time…man, he’d love to be a cat—

“You’d tell me if I hurt you, right?”

Jim jolted out of his blissful thoughts and stuttered in surprise, “What? Yeah, yeah of course I will,” then he quickly added, “But it’s not hurting now…” he smiled, “It’s nice.”

He could practically hear Uhura smiling from behind him, moving her fingers in a rhythm that finally brought some kind of _peace_ , if one could call it that.

Sighing, Jim nestled his head into the pillow, ready to fall asleep what with being somewhat pain-free and the itchiness subsiding.

He secretly hoped Uhura wouldn’t mind standing there scratching him for the foreseeable—

 

_“JIM! STOP!”_

“ _Kirk!”_

_“Dammit. Nurse Chapel!”_

_“What did I do?”_

_“You didn’t do a damn thing. You best get outta here before you get hurt.”_

_“But I—ah!”_

_“Jim! Get the hell off her!”_

_“Doctor? What—oh.”_

_“Nurse! I’ll hold him while you load a sedative.”_

_“Yes sir!”_

“ _Stop fighting me…stop fighting me…”_

_“What’s happening to him?”_

_“Ah…this has…happened…before…dammit Jim!”_

* * *

 

Kirk awoke to the feeling of something round and cold being pressed against his face.

With his eyes still closed, he groaned, “ _Bones_ …what did I tell you about keeping that _thing_ off my face…”

There was a grunt before the object was removed. The southern growl that greeted him let him know that he had somehow, someplace, managed to piss his friend off. Again.

“Jim, this is getting ridiculous. Do you know how many times you’ve lashed out at us? I thought the surgery would’ve knocked that off, but apparently not.”

Kirk wrapped his arms around himself protectively, still refusing to open his eyes.

“…Dunno…a lot?”

Bones snorted, “Yeah, a lot. Dammit Jim, you freaked the hell outta Uhura and now she won’t let me explain…not like I can anyway,” he sighed, “You’re not getting anymore visitors until we figure this out.”

“What?” he opened his eyes, unhappy, “But I can’t control it! You can’t punish me for something I didn’t do!”

“Exactly,” Bones stated, pressing that damned circle back onto his face again, “The fact you can’t control it is _exactly_ why you aren’t getting visitors,” the man raised an eyebrow to emphasize his point, then turned to the tricorder readings, his hand still pressing the _thing_ to Jim’s face.

Jim made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat and sagged back against the biobed, sulking.

Then reached a hand to his side and started scratching again. _Crap, not again._

Bones noticed instantly, his head perking up from his tricorder, “You still itchin’?”

Jim shrugged, “Guess I’m allergic to you,” he mumbled, gritting his teeth and scratching harder when the feeling didn’t dissipate.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bones shouted, throwing the tricorder aside and grabbing both of Jim’s wrists.

“What?” Jim had a dumbfounded look on his face. His friend seemed alarmed by something as trivial as scratching. Next time he’d throw him in an isolation chamber and do a full body scan because he sniffed.

“Stop scratchin’ like that, dammit. You’re making yaself bleed,”

Jim blinked, glancing down to his legs and seeing the various trails of blood running down them. It looked like he’d been mauled by something.

“I can’t feel that,” he reasoned, tracing a finger over the marks, “Why can’t I feel that?” something in his mind began to panic—but he could still move his legs, so what’s the deal?

Bones heaved a sigh, “It’s just the pain meds you’re on. Can’t feel a damn thing so you’re scratchin’ yourself raw,” he dropped Jim’s hands and retrieved his tricorder, re-establishing his hold over Jim’s body, and stood there, scanning him. Over an itch.

“And you’re calling _me_ ridiculous,” Jim mumbled, closing his eyes and trying to shut out the annoying tricorder noises, “It’s just a scratch.”

Bones snorted, the tricorder noises quieting, “Like hell it is. You’re allergic to the oxycodone. I’m gonna switch ya.”

 

_Ughhh._

 

“Any other symptoms?”

_Here we go again._

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

“Breathlessness? Fatigue? Headache? Light-headedness—”

“No. I’m fine, Bones.”

He scoffed, “Jim, your body seizes if I give you _paracetamol_ , so don’t come cryin’ to me if it happens again after lyin’ about this.”

Jim whined, “I’m not lying! I really feel fine! Just itchy…”

He heard the faintest grumbles of _goddamn it_ under Bones’ breath before something tugged at his wrist. He opened his eyes again.

Bones was sticking a syringe in his IV.

“What’s that?” he asked, curious as to what his friend could possibly be stuffing his body with this time.

Bones pushed down on the syringe while carefully holding Jim’s wrist, “I’m gonna flush the drug outta your system,” he explained, placing Jim’s wrist back on the blanket and setting the equipment aside…only to grab a hypo instead.

Jim groaned.

“But in case you ain’t smart enough to realise—flushing the drugs means no painkillers for a while. So, back to sleep it is for you.”

Jim moaned, “But I just woke up!”

There was a hiss and a pinch against his neck, then a comforting pat on the shoulder, “Yeah, well I don’t want to replace the glass in my medbay again, so night night, Jim.”

 

 _Good point_ was the last thing his mind managed to muster before he was enveloped into nothingness.

 

* * *

 

 

The second Kirk’s eyes rolled back, McCoy darted to the communicator panel to get help.

“McCoy to Boyce, get nurse Chapel and meet me in Jim’s room,” he ordered, shutting off the transmission before they could answer.

Something was seriously wrong with Jim. With the sudden multiple lashings out, the allergic reaction to oxycodone (he’s had it before!), there had to be something deeper lying underneath all this.

Voices rushed into the room at once, half expecting Kirk to be flatlining or similar, but as they noticed he was only sleeping, they calmed down. Boyce circled around Jim, reading off his vitals while Chapel approached their boss for an explanation.

McCoy spoke up, “Jim’s had an allergic reaction to the oxycodone—just itchy thank god—but as you both _should_ know, he’s had the drug before. It’s one of the opioids he doesn’t react to.”

Boyce looked up from the monitor, “Is there anything else we should know? Anything strange happened since the surgery?”

McCoy opened his mouth to speak but Chapel beat him to it, “Kirk lashed out again this morning, when Lieutenant Uhura was visiting. McCoy called me in to help sedate him again.”

The CMO nodded, “That’s the fourth time this week it’s happened. Kirk absolutely cannot make any sudden movements, or move at all, otherwise the new material in his back will not fuse properly, and I don’t want to open him up again.”

Chapel nodded—she was there when McCoy did it. The man had miraculously—as much as a miracle worker he apparently was _not,_ managed to remove the Klingon material from Kirk’s spine and replace it with new instrumentation, but it had to fuse to the bone. Which would take four weeks.

Boyce gestured to Jim’s back and made a forward motion, signalling the other physicians in the room to help turn him over. “When they had him down on their ship—did they inject him with anything at all? Anything we missed?”

Chapel shot a look to McCoy, who was carefully moving Jim onto his side, “You know what Jim’s like. He’ll lie about anything to avoid treatment. Maybe more has happened to him that he lets on.”

McCoy frowned—Jim had already told him about them operating on his spine in an attempt to turn him into a Klingon. Perhaps it wasn’t that Jim refused to tell anyone what the Klingons had done.

 

Perhaps it was Jim that didn’t know the true extent as to what the Klingons had done to him after all.

 

* * *

 **Did you enjoy this piece of textual work? Do you desire it's continuation? It is only logical therefore to leave a kudos or comment.**  (please)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bones and Spock realises the extent of what the Klingons have done to Jim. Unfortunately he spirals out of control before they're able to do anything about it.

**A/N: This is a little shorter than usual but I feel like this is a good way to end this chapter. We start to get to the meat of what the Klingons have done to Jim here...hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 

_Boyce gestured to Jim’s back and made a forward motion, signalling to turn him over. “When they had him down on their ship—did they inject him with anything at all? Anything we missed?”_

_Chapel shot a look to McCoy, who was carefully moving Jim onto his side, “You know what Jim’s like. He’ll lie about anything to avoid treatment. Maybe more has happened to him that he lets on.”_

_McCoy frowned—Jim had already told him about them operating on his spine in an attempt to turn him into a Klingon. Perhaps it wasn’t that Jim refused to tell anyone what the Klingons had done._

_Perhaps it was Jim that didn’t know the true extent as to what the Klingons had done to him after all._

* * *

 

 

“Incoming vessel, Captain”

“Captain! The Klingon warship is following us!”

Spock shot up from his chair, intensely watching the panoramic monitor in front of them.

“On screen.”

The image flicked up, greeting the vigilant bridge crew with a picture of the vessel.

Sulu turned around in his chair, shooting the Captain a serious look in the most deadpanned way possible.

“What do we do?”

Spock pursed his lips, internally berating himself for the moment of hesitation. One part of him, the _human_ side wanted to blow the ship to bits for what they had done to Jim.

The rational, _Vulcan_ side of him knew he had to hand the ship in…or come to an adequate conclusion.

“Captain?” Sulu jolted him out of his thoughts, “What do we do?”

Spock turned to the communications officer, determined that he had determined the correct decision, “Lieutenant Uhura, opening a hailing frequency to the Klingon vessel.”

Uhura nodded wordlessly, spinning back around to her station and flicking a switch.

Spock pulled the most intimidating face he could muster together, pushing aside all worry of Kirk.

“Enterprise to unidentified Klingon vessel. This is acting Captain Spock of the USS Enterprise, state your purpose.”

The crew waited in anticipation for the reply.

Almost instantly, and to everyone’s surprise—the screen flashed and switched over to the view of a Klingon ship interior.

“Hello…Captain _Spock_ ,” spat the Klingon that came into view, speaking and pronouncing words slowly as if trying to articulate itself, “I trust you have our captive aboard?”

Spock furrowed his eyebrows— _Jim._

“Whether we have the Captain aboard is not your concern,” he stated matter of factly, wondering vaguely where this conversation was going.

The Klingon growled, spat something in Klingon and tried again, “Acting Captain Spock, it is in you and your Captain’s best interests to return him to us immediately.”

Spock tensed his fists, slightly dipping his head to face Sulu, who was watching him. The navigation officer shook his head no.

“Unfortunately, we cannot simply hand over our captain into enemy hands without reason,” he remarked, moving his hands behind his back, “Is there a reason why you insist on giving him up?”

_Except perhaps to turn him into one of your own._

The Klingon snarled, “Why do you think we let you leave…acting captain Spock?”

Spock stared on, a feeling of foreboding settling into his stomach. His instincts told him something was wrong. And namely, something wrong with Jim.

“Perhaps you would enlighten me.”

The Klingon grunted something incoherent, before looking offscreen to his fellow comrades.

Every other crew member on the Enterprise bridge sat in silence apprehensively, waiting for an explanation from this fairly lenient Klingon.

The Klingon returned his attention back to screen, effectively staring down the bridge.

“Are your… _human slaves_ aware of what transpired on our ship?”

Spock considered for a moment; did everyone on the bridge already know, or would he be divulging information unnecessarily?

“They are aware.” He stated blatantly, deciding to reveal as little detail as possible. In all truthfulness, only Uhura had seen Kirk’s true state of being.

“Good. Then you are aware that we were midway through converting your Captain into a Klingon before you wrongly took him from us?”

Spock was sure he heard a gasp somewhere from behind him—a normal reaction from an unsuspecting crewmember. This was a new method of torture inflicted upon their Captain, whether it was intended to be torture or not, and it was normal for humans to react this way upon receiving the news.

“Yes, they are aware,” he stated simply, not wanting to elaborate on the matter, “You wish to retrieve him simply to continue on your unwarranted procedure?”

“We must have what is ours,” the Klingon reasoned; or reasoned as much as the word meant to a Klingon. “Besides…he will not last long without our intervention.”

_And the penny drops, as the good doctor would say._

Spock was suddenly glad his clenched fists were hidden behind his back, “Why do you think this?”

The Klingon spoke in a near-growl, “His spine was not the only thing altered during his encounter with us, _acting captain Spock.”_

Spock pressed his lips into a thin line—somehow he knew that this situation expanded much larger than he had originally assumed.

“Do not make yourself the reason for his prolonged suffering.”

Consequently, to Spock, Jim’s abnormal outbursts suddenly made much more sense.

* * *

 

_12 scheduled physicals for this week._

_5 new messages._

Sighing, McCoy swiped the notifications away from his PADD and shoved the device to one side.

His nurse, Chapel, had somehow, along with the help of Boyce, managed to get him to move his desk _away_ from Jim’s private ward and back into his own office.

Something about it being bad work ethic, and _it’s_ _too stressful_ was mentioned several times…but he didn’t care. Not really.

He wanted to be around Jim, to make sure he was safe. Was that too damn much to ask?

Well, perhaps that wasn’t something usually asked for when you’re a CMO… _keep your patients at a professional distance_ was always in the medical textbooks.

But dammit, this wasn’t a textbook situation—

_“…..arrrAAAGAAAAHHHH!”_

A cracked anguished scream from the far distance ripped through him—

_Shit._

His blood running cold, McCoy hurled his PADD aside, launched up from his desk, sprinted out the office door and nearly fell over himself to get into Jim’s private room.

Shoving past the whooshing doors that _took too damn long to open_ , the sight in front of him realised his worst fears.

Jim’s mouth was rigid and open, his pastel face matching blanched knuckles—tensed and scrunched into a fist, his nails digging into his palms and shaking through sheer rigidness of his muscles.

Sprinting to his side, McCoy couldn’t help but think—he knew something else was going on with Jim. He had suspected it all along, but neglected to act.

“What the hell’s happened?” he demanded, setting out to find a sedative while the piercing tortured shrieks distorted the sound around him, sending his blood cold.

A panicked nurse was scanning him, shaking her head, “I don’t know! He was sleeping and just abruptly starting screaming! Like he’s possessed or something!”

The pain indicator flashing red and reaching beyond the charts, McCoy spared no haste jamming a hypospray loaded with a sedative into Jim’s bloodstream, rubbing the spot on his neck where the device pinched skin.

The nurse took his hand, forcing Jim to look at her, “Breathe, Captain, breathe with me…that’s it…”

Waiting for Jim’s body to sag, McCoy placed a steading hand on his chest, the other brushing over his forehead. He looked deeply into the man’s tortured blue eyes staring back at him, until they eventually glazed over and rolled back.

Before the doctor could even step back and sigh, a figure suddenly throttled through sickbay doors—McCoy spun around instantly, his guard on, only to realise it was just Spock.

He took now as the right time to let out a sigh of exasperation.

“Alright, Spock,” he demanded, rubbing his hands over his face, “What the hell’s goin’ on?” the Vulcan had barged into the room, immaculate hair windswept and slight panic laced his stoic expression.

“Doctor, I have been in contact with the Klingon vessel chasing after our ship,” he breathed, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, not wanting to ruin his calm façade, “They demand that we return Jim or the venom will continue to ravage his mind.”

McCoy blinked.

Blinked again.

And scowled.

He looked to the other nurse in the room, “Can you leave us for a second, nurse?”

She nodded, the blonde nurse making her exit swiftly.

_Venom?_

“Spock…the hell do you mean… _venom_? Where…” he shut his eyes and tried to compose himself after this unexpected discovery, “Where the hell is the venom?”

The Vulcan straightened himself up, locking eyes with Jim’s figure on the table. “He has already done it?”

McCoy launched up and over to him, “Done _what?_ What in _god’s name_ are you talkin’ about?”

Spock cleared his throat, “I apologise,” he stated quietly, “My encounter with the Klingon ship caused a temporary sense of alarm that is not within my nature. It will not happen again.”

Pursing his lips, McCoy exhaled to keep himself calm. He wanted _answers,_ dammit!

“Spock…what did they say? What the hell is the venom? Where is it? How did it get there?—”

Spock interrupted him, “As you would say; your guess is as good as mine, doctor. They merely stated that there is a venom loose in his system that will alter his genetic code, most prominently his mind.”

McCoy grit his teeth, nodding subtly and turning back towards Jim, “You think they drugged him?” he offered, carefully moving his hands to Jim’s hips, getting ready to turn him onto his side again, “He had a bad screamin’ fit seconds before you burst in here.”

Spock nodded, watching McCoy vigilantly, “I believe so, perhaps in the area that they performed the procedure. It was his back, was it not?”

McCoy tugged Jim’s shirt up, running a hand over the scar that he had left a day before. “Yeah, I s’pose they must’ve tried to go through his nervous system. It was a backup plan in case he was taken.”

They were smart, he’d given ‘em that. Going through Jim’s back first was a start in the conversion process, but a drug injected into his spine to his nervous system could travel up to his brain and take effect there if he went without treatment—hence being taken.

“Are you alright, doctor?”

McCoy blinked again, shooting a look towards Spock, “Uh, yeah. I’m fine,” he forced a smile, then slipped back into doctor mode, “Need to figure out a way to extract the venom.”

Spock craned his head, “That is highly unlikely, considering that the venom is now well inside his brain.”

“Residual amounts could be left over in his spine upon injection,” McCoy paused, furrowing his eyebrows—what was the venom for?

“Spock, don’t suppose ya know what the venom’s doin’ to Jim? It’s altering his brain, yeah, but to what extent?”

Spock looked off into the distance, in thought. Or rather, not wanting to make eye-contact following his conclusion.

“I believe the venom is mentally altering him to a Klingon,” he said with as much stoicism as he could muster, “It would explain the lashing out that he is experiencing.”

McCoy inhaled deeply, sending his glance back to Jim and sighing.

“If you could collect a sample, I will work with the science crew to discover an antidote.”

McCoy clenched his jaw, “But that won’t reverse the damage, will it?”

Spock stared at him icily, “No.”

“Exactly,” he sighed, pursing his lips and shoving Jim from his side over onto his stomach, carefully undoing the ribbons holding the gown together and exposing his back. “I’m gonna see if I can take a sample. Alert nurse Chapel to get back in here and help.”

Wordlessly, Spock nodded and hastily left the room, leaving McCoy to stare down at Jim.

The kid was just laying there, unconscious and flat on his stomach. For once, he missed the guy sitting up on the bridge, taking charge, pissing off all his staff…Now he is motionless and fragile.

“Bones…”

McCoy glanced up, his heart in his throat.

“Damn, you burnt through that sedative like a forest wildfire,” he retorted, knowing full well it was the alterations in his brain that was causing it to easily plough through the sedative.

His eyes were still glazed over, tired, but there was a hint of worry in them.

_Dammit, he must have overheard._

“Are you gonna open me up again?” he croaked, his eyes fluttering shut and snapping open again, “Don’t want that, Bones…”

McCoy forced a smile, kneeling in front of Jim to get on his level, “I’m not gonna, don’t you worry. I need a small sample from your back, that’s all.”

Jim’s eyes seemed to focus and unfocus constantly, before blinking sluggishly as if to wake his vocal cords up, “…s’it gonna hurt?”

He shook his head, moving a hand to Jim’s face, “Nope, not at all,” he promised softly, squeezing his hand, “If you wanna go back to sleep, I can do that.”

Jim seemed to ponder this for a minute, before shaking his head, “I don’t wanna go back to sleep…wanna be awake…wanna move.”

Pursing his lips, McCoy grasped Jim’s hand and pressed it against his own forehead, sighing while trying to figure out what to say.

“You can’t _move_ , Jim,” he pleaded, not able to meet his eyes, “I need you to stay absolutely still, as much as you can, for at least several weeks.”

It killed him to look at the expression on Jim’s face, the absolute despair in them, the desperation to get out of bed, to move, for everything to _stop._

Jim remained silent for a while, but pulled his hand away from McCoy.

“What’s gonna happen to me?” he whispered, urgency in his eyes, “What if I become Klingon? What if I hurt someone?”

McCoy bit his lip, contemplating whether or not to tell Jim that at the first signs of him shifting for longer than usual, he’d be strapped to the bed.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he assured, offering a smile, “I promise you won’t hurt anyone.”

Jim was clearly clenching his jaw, “You don’t know that. I could lash out again, I could get away from you.” There was real desperation on his face now.

McCoy whipped both hands on either side of Jim’s face and spoke sternly, _“_ You _won’t.”_

Despite the CMO’s persistence, the look on Jim’s face told him everything he needed to know—he was gonna change, badly, and he was sure of it.

 

 

 

Just under an hour later, McCoy ripped off his medical gloves and threw them in disposal.

Getting the sample from Jim’s back wasn’t so difficult—and the kid didn’t even put up much of a fuss. Assumingly it was because he was already too busy being preoccupied; worrying over whether he was going to lash out or not.

“We’re all done, Jim,” he confirmed, offering a thank-you nod to Chapel and rolling his patient onto his back again, “You did good.”

Chapel tossed her own gloves in the bin and gave Jim a smile, “Didn’t even break the room divider window this time, I’m impressed.”

Jim snorted, covering his hands up to his face and sighing in exasperation. “So what now?”

McCoy stroked his chin in thought, “Well, we get the thing analysed and figure out just what the hell we’re gonna do with you,” he remarked, slotting the test tube into the machine Chapel had wheeled in upon arrival, “We’ll get you all fixed up Jim, don’t you worry,” he twitched a smile.

Jim offered a smile in return that was so painfully fake to everyone in the room, before shutting his eyes and hiding under his arms.

_Must be damn terrible knowing it’s just a matter of time ‘til you turn rogue on your friends. Your crew…_

The machine let out several high-pitched beeps, alerting the physicians that the scan was done.

McCoy whizzed around and smacked a hand onto the machine, reading the small blue LED monitor intensely, holding his breath.

_Unknown substance detected in ID0492521. Element originates from Klingon structure. Other information unavailable._

McCoy snorted, still staring at the screen, “Fat lot of good that was. _Element originates from Klingons,_ yeah no shit,”

Chapel walked up behind him and peered over his shoulder, “That’s all it says?”

He shrugged, raising a hand to remove the tube, then paused.

“Spock could do it.” he realised out loud, then eyerolled himself - “Of course he can, god damn it! Nurse, get this sample down to Spock!” he gestured vaguely to the machine and dashed over to the comm, ready to warn him in advance—

**_CRASH!_ **

Their dreaded trial of the half-forming Klingon from behind him had just begun.

* * *

 

 

_Get Out._

 

_Get Out._

_Get Out._

 

_Run._

_Get away._

 

_Kill them._

 

_“Jim!”_

 

_Run. Run. Run._

 

_Stop touching me._

 

_Do not touch me._

_“God damn it—Nurse!”_

 

_Run._

 

_“Nurse! Get down here!”_

 

_Get off!_

_Do not touch me!_

 

_Pathetic._

_Pathetic._

 

 

_Wait._

 

 

_How the hell…_

 

_How can could he have the strength to hold me down?_

 

_He has climbed onto my bed._

_What is he shouting at me?_

_What is the purpose!_

 

_“Jim! God damn it, stop! Don’t you see what you’re doing!”_

 

_I’m well aware of what I’m doing._

_Get off me._

 

_“Jim!”_

_“Doctor?”_

_“Nurse! Thank god. Stick him with that sedative, now!”_

 

_A sedative? That won’t touch me._

_Sedatives do not touch people like me._

_Klingons do not react to sedatives._

_…_

_…_

_Oh._

_Perhaps I am just weak._

_No! I am not weak!_

_I am Klingon!_

* * *

 

 

Slowly, McCoy released his manhandling grip on Jim, having practically jumped on the biobed and forced him down on his hands and knees.

The strength of the blonde was ridiculous. He had managed to grab the doctor’s arm and flip him over backwards with one hand.

“Oh my god,” he twisted around hearing Chapel's voice, a hand quickly reaching her mouth as her resolve dissolved, “It’s happened already, hasn’t it, doctor? We’re too late. Way too late.”

McCoy pursed his lips, forbidding himself to reply before thinking.

“We’ll find an antidote.”

But she continued to panic.

“The damage is done though, isn’t it? Doctor, there is no way to reverse this kind of mutilation. Prevent it, yes, but when the damage is already done…”

McCoy balled his hands into fists and hit the side of the biobed, “It’s _not_ too late, dammit! You hear me! We’re gonna find an antidote and reverse this…whatever the hell this is!”

Both physicians remained silent, still trying to process the horror of the situation.

Chapel cleared her throat, “Uh…doctor, do you still want me to bring that sample to Mister Spock?”

McCoy frowned, turning around to face her, “Yeah. Yeah, do it quickly.” He paced back over to Jim, watching his still figure for a moment before shaking his head in resignation, “I’m gonna keep him in an induced coma, but there’s no tellin’ how long it’ll last ‘til he can power out of it.”

She nodded, “I agree with you on that. Perhaps keep him under deeper than you normally would for a human,” she offered, wrapping her fingers around the test tube tightly and making her way towards the exit, “I mean…he’s not exactly human anymore.”

As much as he hated to admit it McCoy had to agree also. The kid was screwed, very much so.

And he had failed him.

* * *

 

 

 **Did you enjoy this piece of textual work? Do you desire it's continuation? It is only logical therefore to leave a kudos or comment.**  (please)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The result of Jim's Klingon behaviour becomes obvious when he begins to attack his crew. Reality sets in for Jim and decides to end it all to save everyone from himself. Literally.

**_A/N:_ What's up my dudes. Sorry for the extremely late update, I've had stuff going on. I'm on vacation right now and people are wondering if I've dropped this fanfic so I wanted to post what I had so far. I'm also kinda sifting into doctor who's fandom right now so my interest in this fanfic is waning. No idea if I'll finish it especially as comments/kudos have been extremely lacking but I hope you've enjoyed this story, and thank you so much to the people that have commented on all of them, you know who you are. Enjoy!**

 

_McCoy frowned, turning around to face Chapel, “I’m gonna keep him in an induced coma, but there’s no tellin’ how long it’ll last ‘til he can power out of it.”_

_She nodded, “I agree with you on that. Perhaps keep him under deeper than you normally would for a human,” she offered, “I mean…he’s not exactly human anymore.”_

_As much as he hated to admit it McCoy had to agree also. The kid was screwed, very much so._

_And he had failed him._

…………..

 

Rocketing down to corridor, Jim came to a halt and peered around the corner, looking for anyone who happened to be in his path. Escaping sickbay was easy, he could easily overpower everyone that stood in his way.

He darted away from the wall corner and thundered down the corridor.

He stopped.

He found it hard to think.

His mind was a mess…like there was two sides of him. Something telling him what he was doing as wrong, but—

“JIM!”

He ran. Darting down the corridor as fast as his legs could take him, and clearly faster than the man running after him as he was being left behind.

He whizzed around another corner, not knowing where he was even planning on going.

A blue phaser beam suddenly shot past him, narrowly missing his arm. He twirled around, smiling at the fear suddenly etched across the man’s face.

He stormed after him, ignoring whatever destination he had originally planned to go, with only one thought in his head.

_Kill him._

_Kill him._

_Kill him._

_Because he’s trying to kill you._

His feet pounded across the floor with every large stride, desperation in his lungs to catch this sprinting man; a pathetic creature running for his life after so obviously opening fire on Jim.

_Honour._

He easily caught up with the creature, instinct beginning to engage them in a fight.

He threw him against the wall effortlessly, clutching at his neck and hissing _something_ , some _sounds_ he didn’t even recognise, before letting him slide to the ground in bemusement. Since when could he make those noises?

The man scrambled, his legs and hands twisting to run, trying to escape like a rat in a cage.

Call themselves Starfleet officers. They shoot once and then make a run for it. How could they ever hope to survive in battle?

………

 

McCoy stumbled into medbay, using a hand to grasp onto the doorframe and leaning sluggishly onto it.

_Dammit…_

Chapel glanced up from another patient and gasped, “Doctor McCoy!”

He snorted, “I’m fine, I’m fine, uh…” forcing himself to keep up appearances and tread into the room while Chapel ran towards him, “I’m fine.”

She broke into a worried smile, “You’re starting to sound like Jim,” she jested, taking his weight under his arms and dragging him towards a biobed, “What happened?”

McCoy snorted, “Yeah, about that,” he groaned, slumping back onto the bed, and relishing in the comfort of it. Sickbay beds were pretty crap, especially examination ones. But he hadn’t slept in days, no less actually lay down on something soft.

“He’s uh…Jim tried to strangle me.”

Chapel jolted back, “He what?”

McCoy sighed, “Tried to strangle me. Just dropped me against the wall eventually. Can’t blame him though, tried to stun him with a phaser,” he paused, taking note of his empty pockets, “And pilfered the hypo, too.”

Chapel gave him a dumbfounded look.

“You _? You_ tried to go after him with a phaser? Of all people?”

McCoy scowled, “On the _stun_ setting!” he defended, wincing at the throbbing pain in his neck, “God…he does not in _hell_ have the strength of a human anymore.”

“Clearly it didn’t work,” she remarked, reaching her hands towards his neck and palpating his throat, “Anything hurt?”

He frowned—was the wincing from her touching not obvious enough? “Oh, _I don’t know_ , Chris, what do ya think?”

She smirked, “You’re gonna need a hypo for that,” Chapel retracted her hands, grabbing a hypospray from the tray and loading the contents with a painkiller and an anti-inflammatory.

McCoy balked, “Wait, hold on I can do that mys— _dammit!”_ the stab to his neck was satisfying to the nurse who had watched him purposefully stab other patients in the neck as if he had a sadistic streak.

It was not however as amusing to the doctor with a half-swollen throat.

“Taste of your own medicine. Literally.”

He glared at her. “Hilarious.”

The nurse sighed, looking off into the distance in thought, “I’ve gotta get back to work and figure out what we’re gonna do with Jim. _You_ have a strangulation injury, _doctor,_ so you’re staying right there for at least a couple of hours.”

 _“What!”_ McCoy sat up in denial, “I’m a doctor! I’ve got work to do!”

Chapel shrugged, “Should’ve thought of that before you chased after someone with the strength and mindset of a Klingon.” She grabbed the tray and placed it on the far cabinet across the room, opening and closing the curtains with a harsh scrape.

Frustration festered in the back of McCoy’s mind, but he couldn’t help but notice the rising worry in his stomach for Jim—and all the other crew who were unfortunate enough to cross his path.

……….

 

“Captain, we’re receiving a hail that originates from a Klingon identity,” Uhura paused, fiddling with the controls a bit more, “But it’s not from the Klingon ship following us.”

Spock furrowed his eyebrows, spinning, no— _rotating his chair_ towards the communications officer.

“Can you understand what they are saying?” he asked matter-of-factly.

She nodded, “Yes sir, they want to hail us on a private channel, they say it’s important. The signal is weak though sir, it’s coming from far away.”

Spock nodded, “Put it on screen, Lieutenant.”

The image on the large panoramic screen flashed up an image of a Klingon—slightly staticky and distorted, likely from the distance.

He pursed his lips, pondering the meaning for this invitation of communication. Were they, too, going to demand the release of Captain Kirk?

Spock stood up from his chair and directed himself at the screen, “This is acting Captain Spock of the USS Enterprise. May I ask why you have hailed us?”

The Klingon growled, but stood tall, “Captain Spock, I am Staloz, son of T'arilla.”

There was a moment of silence between them until the Klingon, Staloz, spoke up again.

“We have detected that you have been transmitting communication frequencies between a rogue Klingon ship.”

Spock frowned, “Affirmative, the vessel has been chasing us for approximately 25.7 hours… _Rogue_ , Staloz? I request that you elaborate.”

The supposed enemy sighed, in a _Klingon_ way—so it was more like a snarl, before another Klingon stomped into view.

“Captain Spock, I am Ukluth, son of Drargh,” this Klingon looked to be more female in nature, if that were possible, “The vessel pursuing your ship is a traitor to our empire. They have no honour. They lost it the moment they refused to return their _borrowed_ ship.”

Spock craned his head in consideration, “You are suggesting that the action of the rogue individuals are separate from the actions of your empire.”

The female looking Klingon nodded, “Yes. They are embarking on a mission that has no relation with us.”

Answers. Finally.

Spock began to piece together the information—if the actions of these Klingons on the vessel chasing them—the vessel that had taken Jim—were separate from the empire; then the empire was not exactly purposefully engaging in conflict.

Perhaps diplomatic training could come into use.

“Am I right in assuming that this mission involves converting the human race into your own kind?”

The first male Klingon frowned, “They have done so already?” the creature turned to the Klingon next to him, both generally looking bewildered, which was a sight to see.

“They have attempted to do so,” Spock confirmed, returning their attention back to him, “Our Captain is currently on the loose in the mindset of a Klingon. His spine has been irreparably damaged by your machine. Humans are unable to sustain the amount of pain that the Captain is in for long, unlike races such as our own.”

It was true, and every crew member on both ships knew it.

Vulcans were trained to believe that pain was a thing of the mind, while Klingons naturally used pain as strength, not weakness.

“Remember, Vulcan, that the machine is not _ours._ Rather, it is theirs, or so they claim it to be. There is no _honour_ in mutilating other races to become like our kind. They are not pure Klingon. We take no fault in this, Captain Spock.”

Spock couldn’t help but agree. It wasn’t the empire that set them out to do this to their Captain, therefore they were not at fault.

The female-looking Klingon spoke up again, “Where is your Captain now?”

Spock glanced down to the navigation panel, not necessary to look for information that obviously wasn’t going to be there unless Jim had somehow taken off on a shuttlecraft—rather he wanted to make it seem like he was considering it.

“I do not know,” he finally concluded, his eyes raising to the screen again, “However, he is loose, injuring our crew members and extremely ill. We cannot fight him. His strength has surpassed that of a human.”

The first Klingon’s eyes widened, “His strength is that of a Klingon?”

“That is what it seems to be.”

Both Klingons turned to each other, conversing in what he assumed was ‘Klingonese’ for at least a minute, before finally turning back to him.

“We will assist you in detaining him, acting Captain Spock, and in return you will aid us in capturing our rogue ship.”

It didn’t take the most logical mind in the universe to realise that was probably as best of a deal that he was going to get.

“Your proposal is logical. I agree to your terms.”

……………

 

“Does my goddamned throat _look_ swollen to you!”

 

“McCoy, you’re not moving anywhere until the 24 hours are up.”

 

He scowled.

It’s already been 3 hours; how much longer does he have to wait?

“In my own professional, medical opinion, I’m absolutely _fine_.”

In all honestly, he _was_ fine. The medication had reduced the swelling and his throat was pretty normal again. But _someone_ was insistent on sticking to regulations.

 “And I agree with you, however you need to stay here for another 21 hours otherwise you could injure yourself.” Chapel was unrelenting.

Was this what it was like dealing with Jim’s escape attempts?

He tried a more sentimental approach.

“Christine, listen to me,” McCoy growled in a hushed tone, “There’s a human-klingon hybrid running wild through the ship right now and the _only_ person who can get through to him is _me_.”

Chapel gave him a dumbfounded look.

“If I don’t try _right now,_ then you’re gonna have more than jus’ my _absolutely fine_ throat to worry about.”

The nurse set her jaw and stared at him, the conflict running through her mind; break protocol and _maybe_ help Jim, or leave the ‘patient’ in bed for the rest of the day and risk a dozen more injuries piling in.

She shook her head at him and sighed, “The _second_ you start to feel bad—”

_Fuckin’ finally._

“—then you come straight back in here. Or so god help me I will drag you back in here by the hair.”

_…Huh._

He snorted, “I’m still ya CMO, Chris. Don’t forget it.” That certainly was no damn way to talk to your boss.

She shrugged, “ _You_ speak to the Captain that way. You’re a hypocrite, doctor,”

He snorted, “Oh yeah? You mean Spock? He deserves it, that green-blooded son of a—”

“The _real_ Captain,” she interrupted him, a stone-cold look in her eyes, “Kirk. He’s _your_ boss yet you threaten him all the time. Insult his first officer too. You’re no better!”

 _Yeah, alright,_ he scoffed, a half-smirk plastering his face.

She was _definitely_ right.

Whether or not they’d be able to keep up that stupidity, rests in whether Jim could be saved.

…………..

 

White walls, white floors, eerily silent and seemingly in the middle of nowhere.

As if experiencing déja vu, Jim found himself once again lying in the middle of a corridor, no recollection of how he got there or where in the vast ship he was.

There was nothing but the gentle low hum of the ship, not a single person wandering around. Even on the night-shift there would be at least _someone_ walking around.

_What the hell’s going on?_

But then, as he was about to sit up—images suddenly surfaced to the forefront of his mind, re-emerging again after a poor hiding attempt.

One image; vivid and taunting him, begging for attention, was the playback of his own hands at Bones’ throat, attacking and pinning him against the wall, watching him slide down and feeling no remorse.

Well, now he was.

He couldn’t remember why it happened, why he didn’t care, what happened to Bones afterwards or why he was angry in the first place.

There was a hypospray tucked into his back pocket, too, so assumedly his Klingon-self saw it as a threat and took it away from him.

Jim slumped back down onto the floor, swiftly overwhelmed by his emotions.

But a helpful thought plagued him, prodding and pushing through the other images ploughing his mind, unable to keep it down, no choice but to acknowledge it.

 _‘You will become a Klingon’;_ those bastards had said to him. ‘ _Your name will be HoD qIrq when you are finished.’_

It was something he didn’t want to think about. Not even acknowledge, or even begin to accept. As soon as he acknowledged it; it was true, right?

And the inevitable fact that he was slowly transforming into a Klingon, regardless of Bones’ distressing surgeries, was a thought too horrific to accept.

Because it didn’t matter how much Bones tried to fix what the Klingons had done to his body; it was his mind that was being altered. And that was the scariest part of all.

There was no way in hell he would be able to live with himself as a Klingon. He had already hurt his best friend…he couldn’t let this escalate further.

………..

 

An entire ship to search for Jim.

Twenty-three decks.

McCoy didn’t even need Spock to know the odds—it would take days to search all of them, and Jim no doubt would have hurt someone by then.

It was too damn bad that he was the only doctor that bothered to go looking for—

_Oh._

His ranting thoughts interrupted, McCoy’s eyes fell upon a figure in front of him. Not covered in gold or a draping gown, but a blue shirt mottled with bruises and ripped sleeves.

 _Damn,_ he cursed to himself, storming towards his newfound patient and rapidly slipping into doctor mode, _Jim’s attackin’ already._

“Doctor?” the figure noticed the doctor’s presence and peered up at him. Upon coming closer, McCoy was surprised to realise it was a woman.

Jim was one hell of a flirter, but he would never…do _that_.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he encouraged the woman, gesturing slightly to her mauled arm, “That looks like it hurts some,” it didn’t seem to be bleeding, so the alarm-bells kept quiet. “Lemme guess, captain on a rampage?”

But his joking tone did nothing to alleviate the shock the woman was going through.

“I don’t…I didn’t do anything, he just came at me—I was just carrying equipment for the science lab—it was like—I don’t know…”

McCoy grit his teeth, taking a breath and pushing away the realisation that this was _Jim_ this woman was talking about, not a villain, an enemy, or a monster.

Still, he was a doctor, and there in front of him was a patient. “Let me have a look at that arm darlin’,” he offered instead, unsure of how to explain to her that Jim was half-Klingon at this point. And he was a _doctor_ , damn it, he had to do _doctor_ things.

The woman allowed him to take it, wincing as he prodded around the claw marks—or the nail marks. Jim had gone completely out on this poor woman.

He sighed, “Look. Listen, Lieutenant, head on over to sickbay and get that looked at,” he advised, urgently wanting to continue his unlikely quest in finding Jim.

His persistence seemed to rub off wrong on her, “Is it bad? Oh god, am I going to lose it?”

Self-control stopped him from snorting, “Nah, but I’d make sure an infection doesn’t start. I don’t want to see your face when I get back, you hear?”

Clearly that came out the wrong way as the woman hastily nodded and shot off down the corridor in front of her, apparently assuming her arm was going to come off.

Well, she sure would be happy once she gets the good news.

 

It was only ten minutes later when he had approached deck seven, up another two floors as sickbay was on deck five. The corridors were now suddenly flooded with people after the incident with the Lieutenant was recorded, which no doubt would make Jim’s hiding worse…if he had even regained his sound mind yet.

Truth was, McCoy had absolutely no plan with what to do with Jim once he had him. He was so caught up over the fact he could hurt somebody that he just shot off down the corridor the minute he was released without thinking.

Which was completely unlike him. He always had something up his sleeve no matter the occasion.

 

All thoughts revolving around that quickly went out the window when he turned another corner and saw a lone figure scurrying like a rat escaping its doom into another room.

Now either a crewmember had done something so extremely abhorrent that they were hiding from the CMO…or that was Jim.

  
Apprehensive, McCoy trod towards the door, running through his head what to say.

What _does_ he say? Was Jim in a human or Klingon mindset?

“Jim? You in there, buddy?” he spoke with caution, not wanting to emergency-override the door if he could help it.

As per expected, there was no reply. He tried again.

“Jim. It’s me. It’s…uh, Bones. Yeah. You need to open up kid, lemme come in.”

When he decided he was just talking to an uncooperative brick wall, McCoy lifted a hand resignedly to use the emergency medical override—but unexpectedly, a voice, low and gravely, exhausted, could be heard from the other side.

“Don’t come in,” the voice warned, sounding tired and fed-up, “Seriously, Bones, don’t come in.”

McCoy frowned at the door and slumped his shoulders. Well, at least he was getting some words out of him. That’s progress.

“Why not? I’m hypoless, I promise.”

He waited patiently for another reply, but upon realising that the uttered sentence from Jim was a one-off, he grunted in exasperation and began to tap in the medical override into the keycode panel.

“I’m coming in now, Jim.”

Almost instantly; “No,”

As the doors slid open, McCoy cautiously tried to block the only exit Jim had, “S’alright, just wanna talk,” he lied, fulling intending to get him off guard and…well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Maybe talking was a good idea after all.

“You got any of that eye-blinding Saurian brandy?” he stepped towards Jim, while the blonde, apparently in his own mind, began backing into the room again.

“I mean it Bones, don’t come in,” Jim’s hands were behind his back, his arms shaking.

_In shock. PTSD? Human. Explain that, Klingon bastards._

“It’s alright,” he coaxed, raising his hands in front of him almost in surrender, “I know what you did, and everything’s alright.”

Well, it’s not alright, but Jim didn’t need to know that.

“No point in playing dumb with me, Bones,” Jim muttered, his eyes trained to the floor, beginning to bring out the hands behind his back—a hypospray lodged into his fist, “Nothing’s gonna change it.”

McCoy’s jaw clenched, staring at the hypo gripped so tightly in Jim’s hands. “Hey, c’mon now Jim, give that hypo to me.” This was likely the hypo that Jim had taken from him when he attacked him.

And he had a bad feeling about the meaning behind him acquiring the device in the first place.

Jim didn’t even shake his head, “I told you not to come in,” he spoke hoarsely, as if just recovering from crying, “I don’t want you to see.”

McCoy unconsciously clenched his fists and took a step closer, “Just give that to me, Jim,” he reached a hand out to take it from him, but the blonde merely stared at it in hesitation. “C’mon, hand it over now.”

_Don’t do it, damn it._

_Please, don’t do it…_

Jim shivered and shook his head, “No, I want it to stop,” he glanced to his hand, “This’ll make it stop, right?”

Alarmed, McCoy had to use every ounce of willpower left in him to not lunge at Jim and rip the hypo out from his hands.

His arm still outstretched, McCoy continued in the calmest demeanour he could muster, “It’ll make it ten times worse, trust me,” he pleaded, trying to inch closer but Jim backed away again, “We can fix this. It’s okay.”

Jim’s hands were trembling so badly the damn hypo could fall out of his hands, “It’s not okay.”

_Christ._

“You’re right, it’s not,” he locked eyes with the blonde, trying to get him to calm down, “But it _will_ be okay. I promise, alright? Jus’…give me that hypo, kid,”

He tried again to reach for it, but Jim jerked back, suddenly overwhelmed and jammed the hypospray directly into his carotid artery.

_Fuck._

_Fuck!_

_No no no no…_

Jim inhaled sharply, “Oh god…” the device clattered to the floor, his hands shaking harder like no tomorrow, fear plastered across his face as he realised what he’d just done “I…”

 _Shit._ “It’s alright, it’s alright,” McCoy murmured, assisting Jim to the floor while doing his best to stay calm, “You’re okay darlin’, you’re okay,”

_Need to contact medical…now._

_Idiot just gave himself an overdose of lorazepam._

“I’m scared,” Jim croaked into the base of his friend’s neck, “I don’t wanna…”

As he suddenly fell unconscious, McCoy grunted as Jim’s entire body weight slumped into the doctor’s arms.

“Jim?” McCoy ran his hands over the unresponsive man’s face, trying to get his attention, “Goddammit, you absolute moron…c’mon, stay with me,”

But the drugs having immediately entered Jim’s bloodstream had likely caused a coma instantly. Which meant more reactions were soon to follow.

“S’alright…” he muttered to himself more than anyone, “Just gonna get us some help here…”

He forced his left hand out from under Jim’s back, shoving it into his pocket and retrieving his communicator.

“McCoy to sickbay, I need medical assistance in deck 7, uh…”

_God, where the hell in deck 7 am I? Been looking all over the damn ship for him._

_“Where are you, doctor?”_

No-one ever came up here, it was a useless deck, pending more refits at Yorktown.

“Uh…it’s an empty room,” was the only information he could provide. He shut his eyes for a second, wondering how he was going to do this. “I’m gonna request a direct transport to sickbay. Standby, there’s an overdose.”

“Yes sir.”

He ended the transmission, immediately opening another one to the transporter room.

_Dammit, we don’t have time for this!_

“McCoy to transporter room, I need immediate beam to sickbay for two.”

The reply thankfully was instantaneous, “Affirmative, beaming you to sickbay.”

Flipping the communicator shut and tossing it aside—because _damn it_ he didn’t have the time to carefully pocket it away, he pressed two fingers against Jim’s neck—the artery he’d injected the drugs into. Relief flooded him when his pulse was still going, though rapid and weak.

As a flurry of gold haze surrounded them, McCoy tightened his grip on the figure laying on his lap, a promise to make sure he wouldn't lose him in the transport beam.


End file.
